07 - Skinner's Ghosts

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘Bob, I . . .’

  Skinner held up a hand. ‘Jimmy, before you say anything: whatever it is that Anderson has on me, I swear to you that I know nothing about any Guernsey money, and that I have never in my life accepted as much as a bent penny.’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me that, son. Come on, let’s walk.’ Side by side they descended the wide stairway. ‘Archie will show you the papers later,’ said Proud, ‘but they’ve got documentary evidence of an account in your name in this JZG Bank, opened a few months back, in the middle of the Jackie Charles investigation.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘One hundred thousand.’

  ‘Jesus. But, Jimmy, anyone could open an account in the name of Robert Skinner. I’m not unique. Why should they think it’s me?’

  Proud shook his head. ‘It’s not in anyone’s name. It’s a numbered account, but Anderson said that there was potential evidence which shows that you’re the knowing beneficiary. It’s a high-interest, long-access job.’

  ‘What bloody evidence can he have? It’s all nonsense.’

  ‘I don’t know what he has - Anderson wouldn’t tell me - but I think it’s pretty serious. I tried to get him to stop short of immediate suspension, but he told me that in his view the supportive evidence made it essential.’

  Skinner looked round at his friend as they emerged once more into the cold, barren entrance hall. ‘I tell you one thing, Jimmy. For our Secretary of State’s sake, he’d better pray he’s on solid ground. Because if he’s playing politics with my reputation again, he’ll find it giving way beneath his feet.’

  45

  ‘Andy, it’s me. Listen carefully. I want you to find Pam. There’s some pretty shocking news you’re going to have to break to her.’

  ‘Where are you, Bob? I know you can’t be in the building, to have come through on this line.’

  ‘I’m in Mitch Laidlaw’s office, with Mitch, and with Alex. Now shut up and listen.’

  Speedily, Skinner told Martin of his summons to meet the Secretary of State, and of his encounter in Committee Room One. ‘Anderson set it up as a real Star Chamber,’ he said as he finished, ‘roping in Archie Nelson, with Jimmy and the Topham woman as his official observers.

  ‘The bastard didn’t have to play it like that. He could have called me in and shown me his evidence informally; given me the chance to knock it on the head before setting up this very public inquiry. This is the second Secretary of State who’s crossed me up, Andy. I tell you, if I can, I’ll see to it that he goes the same way as the other one.’

  ‘Sure, Bob, but get yourself off the hook before you start to get even. Why’s he called in officers from England?’

  ‘He’s got to have at least a DCC in charge. I know all the chiefs and deputies in Scotland, so I guess he figured he had to be seen to be setting up an impartial inquiry.’

  Martin snorted. ‘So he’s saying in effect that he has no faith in the honesty of any chief officer in Scotland.’

  ‘That’s one way of looking at it. In fact it’s a point I should have made to the bugger myself. Tell you what. Have a word with Royston, and ask him, when this thing goes public, to try and work that line into the media coverage tomorrow. I smell another Scotsman leader coming on!’

  ‘When will it go public?’

  ‘Any minute now, I should think. Anderson won’t hang about. So please, get hold of Pam, and tell her, before she hears it on the radio. Then you’d better call Scott Rolland for me. Tell him that Pam’ll take the Falkirk job, before he changes his mind and withdraws the offer.’

  ‘Okay. Look Bob, I can’t think of anything to say, except good luck.’

  ‘Thanks, mate, but I don’t need luck. I’m innocent, remember.’

  He hung up and turned to face Mitchell Laidlaw. The chambers of Curle, Anthony and Jarvis were in one of Edinburgh’s newest and grandest office developments, with a fine outlook across the Castle Rock and up to Princes Street. Laidlaw’s room enjoyed the best of it. It was furnished comfortably rather than opulently, but left visitors in no doubt that they were in the nerve centre of one of the country’s leading professional firms.

  ‘So, Mitch,’ said Skinner. ‘I know your firm doesn’t get involved in criminal work as a rule, but none the less, will you take me on?’

  ‘Of course we will, Bob,’ nodded the ruddy-faced lawyer, looking more rotund than ever in his high-backed leather chair. ‘From what you’ve told me this isn’t really a criminal inquiry anyway. It’s sort of a half-breed, set up by the Secretary of State rather than the Lord Advocate, even if it does report to him.’

  ‘I take it that Anderson has the power to do that?’ the policeman asked.

  Laidlaw smiled broadly across at Alex, who sat by the side of his twin-pillared partner’s desk. ‘What do you think, Ms Skinner?’ he asked.

  Alex flushed slightly, thought for a few moments, then launched into her reply. ‘Basically,’ she said, ‘the Secretary of State can do what he bloody well likes unless statute or the courts tell him differently.

  ‘From what we know of the way this investigation’s been set up, I’d say that you could probably challenge its validity before just about any Scottish judge and win the day. But what would that achieve? You would be seen as trying to frustrate investigation of the complaint against you, and at the end of the day, Anderson would simply turn the papers over to the Lord Advocate and back off himself.

  ‘So any court victory would be Pyrrhic. It would result in you becoming the subject of a full-scale criminal investigation, and possibly even liable to arrest at a fairly early stage. That’s what I think.’

  ‘Couldn’t have put it better myself,’ said Laidlaw. ‘Of course, if you could establish malice against you by Anderson, there might be grounds for another form of action. Is there a chance of that?’

  Skinner shook his head. ‘I can’t say so, honestly. Anderson’s just covering his arse, playing to his back-benchers. ’ He snorted. ‘If there’s any malice in evidence, it’s borne by me towards him.’

  Laidlaw spluttered. ‘Let’s not repeat that outside this room.’ He swung round in his chair and leaned across the desk. ‘Right, Bob. I’ll handle this matter personally, with an assistant.’

  The policeman nodded, and pointed towards his daughter. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘and she’s sat there. I promised Archie that I wouldn’t go near any potential witnesses myself. But I want them to know who they’re dealing with.’

  ‘Pops,’ Alex intervened. ‘Are you sure about this?’

  Mitch Laidlaw raised a hand. ‘If he isn’t, I am. I don’t see anything wrong with a bit of personal involvement in these circumstances. Also, if this does require detailed investigation by us . . . well, something of your father must have rubbed off on you!

  ‘One other thing,’ he said. ‘It may be helpful if we engage counsel at some point. Do you have any preferences, Bob?’

  Skinner rocked his head back and stared for a while at the dappled ceiling, as if racking his brains. At last he looked back across the desk. ‘You might think her daft, but of all the people currently available, the best criminal silk who ever cross-examined me is dear old Christabel Innes Dawson, QC.

  ‘I often thought that if I was really in the shit, there’s no-one at the Bar I’d rather have on my side. Well I am now, she’s still listed as a practising member, and she still has all her marbles.’

  Laidlaw smiled. ‘I’ve never instructed her,’ he said, ‘but I remember seeing her in action, when I was a student. A terrifying sight in full cry, as I recall. If you want her, I’ll have a word with her clerk today, to put down a warning marker.

  ‘But meanwhile, let’s the three of us have some lunch, before we head up to the Crown Office, to find out just what sort of battle the old lady is going to have to fight.’

  46

  Pamela sat open-mouthed, facing Andy Martin across his desk. ‘I can’t believe it. Surely this must be a set-up. But how would the Spotlight manage to fake ev
idence so well that it convinced the Secretary of State?’

  ‘Beats me, Sarge,’ said the Chief Superintendent. ‘Noel Salmon didn’t do it all on his own, that’s for sure. He could barely forge a betting slip, far less set up a phoney account in an offshore bank.’ A light came into his eyes as he said the words. ‘That’s a thought, isn’t it? I think it’s time we stopped bothering about the monkey, and found out more about the organ-grinder.

  ‘Pamela, do you want to help Bob?’

  She looked at him with sudden outrage. ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘Sorry, that was a silly thing to say,’ he acknowledged. ‘What I want you to do, then, is dig up Companies House and get hold of the registration details for Spotlight in the UK. After that I want you to call a man in Washington. He owes Bob a couple of favours. It’s time we called one in.’

  He reached into his desk drawer and produced a small notebook. He flipped through it until he found the page he was looking for, then picked up a pen and scribbled on a scrap of paper. When he was finished he replaced the notebook, locked the drawer, and pushed the paper across the desk to Pamela.

  ‘That’s a direct number to a desk on Capitol Hill. Once you’ve used it, burn it. The man’s name is Joe Doherty, and he’s a top gun on the US National Security Council. Tell him that Bob needs help, and why. Then ask him if he can get for us detailed information on the ownership of Spotlight, and on how it operates, internationally. Anything that he thinks is relevant.

  ‘Ask him to call me personally, as soon as he has something for us.’ He glanced at his watch. It was ten minutes past midday. ‘Go on, then, and get started. By the time you’ve checked the UK company listings, Joe should be in his office.

  ‘Incidentally, you don’t need to say anything to Bob about this. He regards Joe Doherty as his own personal snout.’

  Pamela stood up to leave looking shocked and slightly bewildered. For all his personal loyalties to Sarah, Andy felt a pang of sympathy for her. ‘Hey,’ he said, standing up. He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. ‘Try not to worry too much. This is nothing; at worst this is just some evil sod playing silly buggers. Bob’s been in far worse scrapes than this and come through them.

  ‘I often think that he’s been in more trouble than even I know about.

  ‘There was one time he was shot in the leg. He told Alex and me that he had been careless and that his own pistol had gone off accidentally. But that same night, a man disappeared right off the face of the earth . . . as far as I know, at any rate.

  ‘I asked about him afterwards, out of curiosity. All I got was silence, and sincere advice through the Special Branch network to mind my own business.’

  She looked up at him. ‘You’re not saying that Bob . . .’

  ‘I’m not saying anything, other than don’t be too concerned about him. He’s like a cat, with quite a few of his nine lives left.’

  ‘You know what I like about you, Chief Superintendent,’ Pamela said, with a smile. ‘You only see one Bob Skinner, and he can do no wrong.’

  Martin grinned back. ‘I wouldn’t go that far. These contact lenses of mine have a green tint, not rose-coloured. Now, on you go. I’ll come out with you. I want to see young Sammy.’ He ushered her out of his office and towards her own desk in the corner of the CID Command Suite.

  ‘Tell you something,’ he said quietly as she took her seat. ‘I ain’t half going to miss the big fella’s presence. Whoever set Bob up has done Leona McGrath’s killer a favour.’

  ‘. . . Unless, of course, they’re one and the same person.’

  He looked down at her. ‘The same thought’s been niggling away at me. But let’s not turn a long shot into a conclusion. The boss would tell you that setting up the McGrath crime was a full-time job. He’d say that the guy wouldn’t have had time to spare for him.’

  The Head of CID switched his gaze to the far corner. ‘Sammy,’ he called, ‘come through and give me a report on the supplier of those false plates.’

  ‘I’ve been waiting to do just that, sir,’ the young detective constable replied. ‘I think I might be on to something.’

  Martin had been heading for his office. He stopped in his tracks and turned back to face Pye as he rose from his desk. ‘You do, do you? Good work if you are, lad. Come on, let’s hear it.’ He strode back into his office, with his junior at his heels.

  ‘It’s like this, boss,’ said the constable, closing the door behind him. ‘I was plugging away like you told me to, round the used car network, and round our informants, without getting as much as a sniff about anyone supplying dodgy plates. I thought I had run it dry: then I had an idea.

  ‘Remember those two guys we encountered in the Jackie Charles investigation? Whitehead and Bailey, the two salesmen who worked for him in the Seafield showroom?’

  ‘Yes,’ Martin acknowledged, ‘I remember we interviewed them. But they were on the up and up, weren’t they?’

  ‘That’s right. The inquiry concluded that the showroom was the only legitimate part of Charles’s business portfolio, and that they were exactly as they seemed, honest car salesmen.’

  The Chief Superintendent nodded. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, sir, I thought, wasn’t that a bit unlikely, really? Everything else about Charles was completely bent. Surely some of it must have washed over the car operation. Then I remembered that guy McCartney, the heavy who was nicked in Alnwick with the, eh . . . incriminating cargo . . . in his boot. He was one of Charles’s team, and the plates on that big white Rover of his turned out to have been false too.

  ‘So I took a chance. I went down to Seafield, to see Bailey and Whitehead. You know that Jackie’s showroom was rebuilt, and that his dad’s managing it for him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The old man was out when I called, so I saw the two salesmen together, without being bothered by him interfering, or intimidating them by his presence. I told them that we were wrapping up the prosecution case against Ricky McCartney, and that we had info that Jackie’s workshop, behind the showroom, had put false plates on the Rover. I asked if they could confirm it, but I said that we were pretty sure of our ground. Of course, I sort of pointed out that it would mean the end for the business. The finance companies would blacklist it; that sort of thing.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘They bought it. Bailey swore blind, and Whitehead backed him up, that nothing dodgy ever happened at Seafield. Then he told me that on the morning of the incident that McCartney was nicked for, Dougie Terry, Charles’s minder, called him. He asked him to pick up a parcel from a workshop just off Dalry Road, and deliver it to big Ricky at his home address.

  ‘Bailey said that he didn’t look in the parcel, but that it was long and rectangular and was about the right weight for a couple of plates.’

  ‘Could he remember the address of the workshop?’ asked Martin, eagerly.

  ‘Yes, sir. He gave it to me. He said the guy who handed over the package was called Eddie Sweeney. I checked, but it doesn’t appear that he’s known to us.’

  The Head of CID smiled. ‘Good work right enough, Sammy. Of course, there’s nothing to link our man on the moors with Sweeney, but Bailey’s information gives us grounds to pull him in. When we squeeze him, you never know what’ll pop out.

  ‘I should really turn it over to Superintendent Pringle. It’s his divisional area. But what the hell, you did the legwork on this, so let’s you and I pay a call on Mr Sweeney ourselves.’

  47

  As Lord Archibald had anticipated, Skinner’s way was blocked by a small group of photographers as he, Mitchell Laidlaw and Alex stepped out of their taxi in Chambers Street. Beside them stood the exultant figure of Noel Salmon.

  ‘Look this way, Bob,’ the Spotlight journalist called, a triumphant edge to his tone.

  ‘What,’ the policeman called out, with an easy contemptuous smile. ‘You mean short, cross-eyed and crumpled?’ Several of the photographers laughed.

  ‘Sorry
about this, Bob,’ said one, a bulky, bearded figure whom Skinner knew well, raising his camera to focus on the group.

  ‘That’s all right, Denis. I’ve never objected to being photographed before, so why should I now?’ He looked to his left, at Laidlaw and Alex. ‘Just walk on,’ he said, ‘and smile if you look into anyone’s lens.’

  ‘How does it feel to have a crook for a father, Miss Skinner?’

  Alex stopped in her tracks and turned to face her heckler, the Spotlight reporter. She stared at him with something closely related to the unblinking glare with which her father had transfixed a thousand criminals through his career. ‘Are you just plain stupid, or can you really stand the cost of a defamation action, Mr Salmon?’ she asked him, edging closer to him, as the little man backed off. ‘Because when this is over, what you’ve just said will give us grounds.’

  ‘Come on, lass,’ said her father. ‘That’ll come in due course. Let’s not keep Archie waiting.’

  The trio strode off through a gateway and towards the entrance to the Crown Office, from which Scotland’s criminal prosecution service is run. The photographers watched them leave. They were not allowed beyond the pavement, since the building also housed Edinburgh’s Sheriff Court, from whose precincts they were always banned.

  Inside the recently built office, Laidlaw headed for the reception desk. His approach was anticipated by a young woman in a smart grey suit. ‘Hello,’ she introduced herself. ‘I’m Susan Shaw, the Lord Advocate’s assistant. If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you straight to Lord Archibald.’

  They walked in silence as she led them along a corridor which ended at a light oak door. She knocked lightly upon it, then held it open for Skinner and his companions.

  Lord Archibald crossed the room to meet them, small, grey and twinkling, his hand outstretched in greeting. ‘Hello Bob,’ he said, then smiled as he saw the other man. ‘I’m not too surprised to see you here, Mitch.’

  ‘It’s an honour to be in your new chambers, My Lord,’ Laidlaw responded. He and Archie Nelson had been contemporaries at university, and had served their legal apprenticeships in the same office. He turned to Alex. ‘This is my assistant, Miss Skinner.’