07 - Skinner's Ghosts

by Quintin Jardine

  The Lord Advocate’s eyebrows rose in surprise, as he looked from Alex, to her father and back again. ‘We’d better watch our step, then,’ he said, managing to sound not in the least patronising.

  ‘Come, let’s sit down.’ He turned towards a big conference table to the left of his desk. On the far side, sat two men, unsmiling, in dark suits. Neither rose as the others joined them.

  ‘These are the investigating officers,’ announced Lord Archibald, briskly. ‘Deputy Chief Constable Cheshire, and Detective Chief Superintendent Ericson. They’ve just arrived.’ The men nodded in turn as they were introduced. Cheshire was in his mid-fifties, Ericson ten years younger. Skinner had heard of the Manchester DCC. He had a reputation within his own force as a fierce disciplinarian, and had handled a number of similar inter-constabulary investigations in England for the Home Office.

  He gave him an affable, appraising look. The Englishman stared back, with an expression which made the room suddenly colder.

  Skinner knew what the eyes said. ‘I don’t like bent coppers, mate, and when I get finished, you’ll know how much I don’t like them.’ His own gaze hardened. ‘Normally, I’d be pleased to meet you gentlemen,’ he began. ‘But in these circumstances, I can’t honestly say that I am. However, I recognise that you have a job to do, and as long as you approach it fairly and impartially, we’ll co-operate in any way we can.’

  Cheshire shook his bullet head. His greying hair was cut so close that it almost seemed shaved, and he wore the deep tan of an outdoorsman. ‘Let me disabuse you of that notion, Mr Skinner,’ he barked. ‘Presumption of innocence is all very well for an ordinary criminal investigation. This isn’t. In investigating allegations against policemen, I begin with a presumption of guilt. This time, it’ll be up to you to prove yourself innocent.’

  Mitchell Laidlaw stiffened, and seemed about to intervene, but Lord Archibald forestalled him with the slightest wave of a hand. ‘If that’s the approach which the Home Office has allowed you to take in the past,’ he said, in his light, lilting accent, ‘I’m afraid you’ll find that we do things differently in Scotland. I think it best if I begin by setting out, for everyone’s benefit, the basis on which this enquiry will proceed.’ He leaned forward, linking his short stubby fingers together, and looking directly at Cheshire.

  ‘This is, in law and in fact, my investigation. You are here to look into the allegations which have been made against Deputy Chief Constable Skinner, and to report to me on the weight of the evidence. If your findings are that there is a criminal case to be answered, the precognition of witnesses will be undertaken by the Procurator Fiscal of Strathclyde, and his deputies, all members of the Crown Office staff.

  ‘You and Mr Ericson will not take formal statements from potential witnesses, nor will you be permitted to interview Mr Skinner under caution. In all of this, I must insist that you adopt a neutral attitude. You will make no suggestions to witnesses, and you will conduct all your interviews together, never individually.

  ‘You are not witch finders, gentlemen; you are simply my agents.’

  He switched his gaze to Laidlaw. ‘Do those ground rules seem fair to you?’

  ‘Perfectly, with the proviso that we have access to any notes taken by Mr Cheshire and Mr Ericson in the course of interviews.’

  ‘That’s fine by me,’ said the Lord Advocate, ‘. . . which means it’s fine!’

  He reached for a thin green manilla folder which lay on the table and pulled it towards him. ‘Right, let’s get down to business.’ He looked at Laidlaw again. ‘Mitchell,’ he said, in a quiet, and suddenly very formal tone, ‘this is what we have against your client.’

  He opened the folder and took out a single document.

  ‘That’s it?’ asked Alex, almost incredulous.

  The Lord Advocate looked at her, and nodded. ‘For the moment, it is. Uncovering the rest, or discounting it, is what this investigation is about.

  ‘This is a covering letter from Mr Noel Salmon, of the newspaper Spotlight. It claims that he received information that a corrupt payment, in the amount of £100,000, was made to Mr Skinner, with a view to securing for the donor a favourable outcome of a case under investigation.

  ‘The money, it alleges, was paid into a new account in the Guernsey office of the private bank JZG. The account is numbered, UK 73461, and the deposit was received in cash.’

  ‘From whom?’ asked Skinner, sharply, but his solicitor laid a hand on his sleeve, as if to silence him.

  ‘Patience, Bob,’ said the Lord Advocate. ‘The sum was delivered by courier, with a covering letter of instruction, unsigned.’ He looked across at Laidlaw, who nodded.

  ‘Where is the evidence linking this payment to Mr Skinner?’ he asked.

  ‘Mr Salmon’s letter advises me that he is informed that with the covering letter was a note saying that the beneficiary of the account was Mr Robert Morgan Skinner, of Edinburgh. The note, it is alleged, identified you specifically by giving your birthplace and your date of birth. Further, it is said that there was a separate sheet of paper with the note, which bears a sample of Mr Skinner’s signature.’

  Mitchell Laidlaw rocked back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling, and took a breath so deep that for a second or two, it seemed that the buttons on his waistcoat would pop. ‘I see,’ he boomed at last, as his explosive exhalation subsided. ‘But you are only speaking of allegations, Archie. Allegations, if I may say so, from a very disreputable source, with a known grudge against my client.

  ‘If the Secretary of State has suspended a senior police officer based purely on what you’ve told me, I’m going straight to the Court of Session; I’m going to rouse the Lord President himself and have that suspension lifted.’

  Skinner looked at his friend, seeing him once more in a new light.

  But Lord Archibald shook his head. ‘No, no, Mitch,’ he retorted quietly. ‘I wouldn’t have let him do that, and you know it. Salmon’s letter says that the manager of the bank refused to discuss the matter with him. Quite right too, and beneficial. Not even the Spotlight would dare run the story this Sunday without corroboration from him.’ He paused.

  ‘However, the same manager was pragmatic and wise enough to agree to discuss it with me.’

  ‘Why should he do that, with respect?’ asked Alex.

  ‘Because I’m a member of the Government, and because JZG has a banking licence in the UK. I didn’t have to spell anything out to him, once I’d convinced him who I was.

  ‘I called him this morning, from the Secretary of State’s office, and established my bona fides simply by having him call me back through the Scottish Office switchboard. His name is Mr Medine: French influence, I suppose.

  ‘He confirmed to me that account number UK 73461 does exist, and that the substance of the allegation is correct. He’s awaiting the arrival of Mr Cheshire and Mr Ericson. He doesn’t normally go to the office on Saturdays, but he’s making an exception tomorrow.’

  Skinner leaned forward, looking up the table towards the Lord Advocate. ‘We’ve got access to this man too, Archie, yes?’

  ‘In principle, you have. I can’t order him to see you, of course.’

  ‘Can we make life easier for him, then?’

  ‘What do you have in mind?’

  The policeman smiled. ‘Well, since this is an informal enquiry, and since we’ll have access to witnesses and interview notes, how about letting one of my team accompany your men to Guernsey to sit in on the interview?’

  Cheshire snorted. ‘Nice try, Skinner.’

  Lord Archibald frowned at first at the investigator’s comment, then smiled as he began to think the request through. ‘As an observer, you say? Not to conduct the interview in any way?’

  Skinner shook his head. ‘No, but with the right to ask supplementary questions at the end.’

  The Law Officer turned to the investigators. ‘Apart from there being no precedent, can you give me a good reason why I shouldn’t allow this?’

/>   ‘Potential intimidation of witnesses, sir,’ said Cheshire, aggressively.

  ‘Indeed? I’d expect a witness to be intimidated by two senior police officers, but hardly, if I read Mr Skinner’s mind aright, by a legal apprentice just out of university.’

  Alex looked round at her father in surprise. He grinned at her and nodded.

  ‘All right, Bob,’ said Archibald. ‘I agree. But your representative must not interrupt Mr Cheshire’s questioning, mind.’ He turned to the men from Manchester. ‘You will allow Miss Skinner to ask supplementaries, though.’

  Cheshire sat silent and grim-faced, a flush showing even through the heavy tan. It was Ericson who broke the silence. ‘Very good, sir,’ he said, turning to Alex. ‘Leave me your office number, Miss Skinner, and I’ll advise you of our travel plans, once they’re made.’

  48

  Even with the aid of a street map, and even although the Chief Superintendent’s flat was less than a mile away, Martin and Pye had trouble finding Eddie Sweeney’s workshop. It was tucked away out of sight at the end of one of the lanes which ran off Dalry Road, behind a Georgian town house, a forgotten treasure which had been rescued by an office developer. It was perhaps eight yards across, and twenty deep, a wooden structure with a corrugated iron roof, bounded at the rear and on the right by the high red brick walls of the adjoining building.

  Before setting out from Fettes, Martin had called the force’s criminal intelligence unit, and the national criminal records department, to check on their target. The second source had yielded a faxed photograph, taken at the time of a conviction in Aberdeen twelve years earlier, for receiving a stolen motor car, an offence which the Sheriff had taken lightly enough to punish with only a year’s probation. That had been completed impeccably, and since then there had been no sign of a subsequent transgression.

  The policemen drew up in Martin’s Mondeo beside big grey-painted double gates which seemed to cover almost the full width of the workshop. The lane was a dead end, and so narrow that the Chief Superintendent had to position the car carefully, to allow both Pye and himself to open their doors.

  The gates were secured by a heavy chain and padlock, but inset, to the right, there was a smaller doorway, black-painted, standing out from the surrounding grey, and with a brass nameplate on which the name ‘E. Sweeney, Motor Engineer’ was etched.

  Martin banged on the grey gate. ‘Mr Sweeney. Police. Open up, please.’ There was no reply, no sound from within. He pushed the smaller door, but its Yale was secure. ‘Is there a back entrance to this place, d’you think?’ Martin mused.

  ‘Not unless it’s through the wall of the whisky bond next door,’ Pye pointed out. ‘Maybe he closes early on a Friday.’

  The Chief Superintendent sighed. ‘Well he bloody shouldn’t,’ he said. ‘This week started with a locked door, now it’s ending with another. Fuck this, Sammy, I’m fed up being pissed about. I think I feel an accidental stumble coming on.’ Abruptly, he lifted his right foot and slammed the door with his heel. There was a crack as the keeper of the Yale gave under the force of the kick.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said the young detective constable, ‘that was nearly a nasty fall. Are you all right, sir?’

  ‘I’ve been worse. Thank God that door was there to stop me.’

  There were no windows in the workshop; it was in darkness as they stepped inside. The little light which spilled in from the small doorway lit up a red car, jacked up at the front, but beyond the gloom was too deep to make out anything. The place smelled: of oil, of grease, of old leather . . . and of something else. ‘Christ,’ said Pye, ‘d’you think Sweeney just pisses in the corner when he’s needing?’

  Martin said nothing, but peered around near the entrance until he found a light switch. He threw it, and after a few seconds a sequence of half a dozen neon tubes flickered into life. As they did, Pye had reached the red car, and could see beyond.

  He gave a slight, involuntary shout, and started. For a moment Martin thought that the young man would turn and run, but he held his ground. ‘Sweeney’s in after all, sir,’ he whispered.

  Quickly, Martin stepped up beside him and together they advanced, into the furthest corner of the workshop.

  Clearly, Eddie Sweeney had not been a big man in life. His feet only just touched the ground as he sat in the green, straight-backed wooden chair, his wrists and ankles lashed securely to its legs with heavy black insulating tape. But in death his eyes were huge. They stood out in their sockets, seemingly only a very short step from popping out altogether.

  Martin leaned over and stared into the grotesque, purple, dead face. ‘Oh, Sammy,’ he whispered, ‘we’re dealing with a very special mind here. This man’s an expert. He believes in death as an art form.

  ‘I’ve only ever encountered one other like him.’

  Pye crouched down beside his boss, looking up at the dead, head-lolling Sweeney. And as he did he saw that the man’s nose was swollen, with white wisps of cotton wool protruding from the nostrils. His cheeks were distorted too, and something showed between the protruding teeth; something dirty, yellow and furred.

  ‘That’s not his tongue, is it, sir?’

  Martin chuckled, blackly. ‘Not even the most liverish tongue ever looked like that.’ He stood up and leaned over the body. ‘Yes, there’s a grazed lump on his head. Our Mr Sweeney was cracked on the head from behind, then taped into his chair.’

  He shook his head. ‘What an imagination, and what a way to go. The killer packed his nose with cotton wool, rammed a tennis ball into his mouth, and stood back to watch while the poor sod suffocated.’

  Pye shuddered. ‘A tennis ball?’ He looked closer. ‘In the name of . . . So it is.’

  ‘Game, set and match to our man,’ said the Chief Superintendent, ‘or so he thinks. We’d better take a look around, for the sake of form. But this is a very thorough person. I don’t think for a moment that we’ll find anything to help us.’

  He stepped across to the far side of the workshop, where a grey filing cabinet stood against the wall, with its second drawer slid open. On the floor beside it there was a big brown steel waste bin. Martin looked inside. ‘Sammy, forget it,’ he called to his young colleague. ‘He got what he was after. There’s ash in here, and you can bet that once it was the paperwork related to a set of plates, supplied to customer unknown, no questions asked.’

  ‘Are you sure that this was the man we’re after, sir? Maybe Sweeney was in bother with someone else.’

  The chunky Martin shook his head. ‘Forget it, Sam. This was our guy all right. As soon as he saw the photofit which we issued yesterday, he knew that we’d linked him to the caravan. So he went back and covered his tracks. End of story, for Mr Sweeney.’

  He looked at the body once more. ‘It could be that he’s even sending us a message in the way he chose to kill him. All significant openings closed off. Fine, let him be that cocky, for that’s how we’ll catch him.’

  ‘What do you mean, sir?’

  ‘I mean that when you’re dealing with a criminal as arrogant and sure of himself as this one is, all you have to do is wait while his ego and his feelings of infallibility get bigger and bigger, until, sure as eggs is eggs, he makes the mistake which lets you nab him.’

  49

  Pam woke at seven forty-five on Saturday morning, alone in the bedroom of the Gullane cottage. She was startled at first, until she remembered that she and Bob had decided to leave Edinburgh for the weekend, although not for Peebles Hydro.

  They had spent a long, silent Friday evening in the cottage. Skinner was morose, and largely silent, with the telephone set on auto answer, catching calls from a few sympathetic friends. The only calls which he had returned had been from Neil McIlhenney, offering his sympathy, and his total support, and from Andy Martin, telling him of Sweeney’s murder.

  ‘Won’t that put that farmer in danger?’ Pam had asked, as he had explained what had happened. ‘Mr Carr, I mean, the man who did the photofit.’r />
  ‘I shouldn’t think so. He’ll assume, rightly, that Andy will put a guard on him. So it’d be too dangerous to go back to the farm to take him out. Anyway, what would be the point? The composite picture would be evidence in itself. No, his meeting with Carr was very brief. He must have spent much more time with Sweeney, or maybe Sweeney even knew who he was.’

  He had shuddered quite violently, startling her. ‘I hate people like him, you know, people who kill with flair, not just with purpose. Murder’s murder, I know, always terrible; but usually it’s in hot blood. Occasionally it’s a commercial transaction, a falling-out among criminals who live by different rules from the rest of us.

  ‘I don’t tolerate any of it, but nothing turns my stomach like a man who can kill the way this fellow does. He’s so premeditated: the way he just disposed of Sweeney, the way he killed Leona.’

  ‘Leona? Was that necessarily premeditated? Couldn’t that have been sexual in origin, with him catching her naked?’

  Bob had given her a long cool look, shaking his head. ‘Not the way I read it. He didn’t have to go upstairs. He could have taken the boy and gone. But he chose to go upstairs to find the mother, to rape and kill her. There was a message there too, I think.’

  She had stared at him then, astonished. ‘A message? For whom?’

  But he had shaken his head and fallen silent once more.

  Now, with the soft sunlight of early morning making patterns of the window frames on the bedroom curtains, she rose and, putting on her robe as she went, made her way through the living room to the kitchen. There she found him, sitting at the table, in running shorts and teeshirt, sweating heavily, his shoulders hunched, his head down, caught off guard in an attitude which touched her heart.

  She moved silently behind him and ran her fingers through his matted hair. ‘Come on, Big Boy,’ she whispered, soothingly. ‘It’s supposed to be darkest just before the dawn, not after it.’