Eighty-seven
Okay, troops. It's good to be back together with so many of you.'
Skinner stood in the main briefing room at Fettes Avenue. He smiled around the assembled faces. They included Roy Old, Alison Higgins, Andy Martin, Brian Mackie, Maggie Rose and a number of junior officers from the Drugs and Vice Squad, and from Alison Higgins' divisional team.
He looked at Martin. 'Who's baby-sitting?'
'McGuire's got Cocozza, and McIlhenney’s with Ainscow.'
`Good. I want our most experienced people covering them from now on. I had an interesting visit yesterday. It seems that there might be a new prayer in the game.'
He described in detail his detour to Leicester, his meeting with Norrie Monklands, and the story of Lucan's paranoid rage.
`This guy is not to be pissed about with. He and his late half-brother were peas from the same pod. Killers. Sometimes they hired help, like the German in L'Escala, but Nick was capable of doing the job himself, and we can assume that Lucan is too. So, if this guy is headed up here, then we aren't simply keeping Ainscow and Cocozza under surveillance. We could be keeping them alive.
Roy Old raised a hand. 'Couldn't we just lift them, Bob?'
Skinner shook his head. `That'd be the easy answer. But what grounds do we have? Monklands is too scared to go on the record, so we've nothing, but our assumptions to rely on. Listen, I still want these guys — don't be in any doubt. If it hadn't been for that bloody dog in Leicester, we'd have them right now. We'll keep watching them in the faint hope that they make a wrong move, and that we can save something from that wreckage. They've ridden their luck so far, and as far as Lucan's concerned they can ride it some more. If we see him, we nick him. If not, then we keep Monklands' information to ourselves.'
'Do you think Ainscow knows about Vaudan yet?' asked Andy Martin.
`It's possible. The way he's most likely to find out is by calling his secretary in InterCosta — it's still trading — or if he contacts Gloria Alberni for any reason. If he does, then he'll get the official version, which is that the Guardia Civil went up to question Vaudan about a series of thefts of high-value boats along the Costa Brava, and that he panicked, pulled out a gun and started shooting. Nobody down there, other than my friend Pujol, knows what the real story is.'
Skinner looked around the room. 'All sorts of things could happen in this one yet. I think that our best chance of getting a result is through Cocozza. He's out of his league. He's a wee man who's suddenly got big ambitious. If we can find a reason to put the pressure on him, he might crack and give us the extra witness we need to wrap up Ainscow. So let's just carry on with what we're doing, and see what turns up. Andy, this is a drugs operation, so you carry on co-ordinating operations. Keep me informed if the cork pops out of the bottle.
He glanced across at his personal assistant. 'Come on Maggie. Let's get back to that bloody in-tray.'
The gathering stood up as he did. He preceded Maggie Rose from the room and along the corridor which led to the stairs to the Command Suite. As they turned the corner, they barely avoided collision with a young woman officer who had come rushing down the steps.
She looked up and flushed bright scarlet. 'Sorry, sir. Excuse me, but is Mr Martin still along there.'
Skinner nodded. 'Yes, he is. And he can only get out this way, so you've got him cornered. You can take it a bit easier from now on.
Back in his office, Skinner and Rose sat on either side of the desk and began to work their way through the great pile of folders, reports and correspondence that had accumulated in Skinner's short absence. They were only on the third item, a report from the Borders division on a recent increase in cattle-rustling, when there was a heavy knock on the door.
`Yes!'
The door swung open and Andy Martin came into the room. A slight frown line creased his forehead.
`Could be the cork's out the bottle already, boss. I've just spoken to Neil Mcllhenney. It looks as if Ainscow's disappeared'
`What! How the hell did that happen?'
`Sounds like the night-shift. Neil took over at half-eight as usual. Ainscow's car was still in the driveway, so he didn't think anything of the curtains being closed. But then the postwoman turned up with a parcel that was too big for the letter-box. She rang the bell for two or three minutes, but there was no answer. So Neil called Ainscow's telephone, meaning to say "Wrong number" if the call was picked up. Still no reply. So he went in. He hadn't heard about Lucan, remember. He just didn't fancy the feel of things. Anyway, he went round and tried the back door. It was unlocked, so he went in and searched the house. There was no sign of Ainscow, but in the main bedroom the shirt drawer and wardrobe were lying open, as if someone had packed some kit in a hurry. The bed hadn't been slept in.
`He went back outside and looked in the garden. There's a back gate from the property that we didn't know about, which leads to a lane. It looked as if the gate wasn't used very much, because leaves and stuff had gathered around it. They were scraped back, as if the gate had been opened recently. Neil looked at the lane. It leads down to the main street, and right there is a twenty-four-hour taxi office. He checked. A man with a small suitcase walked in last night around ten thirty and took a taxi to Stirling station. There are still four trains after then, including one that feeds a London overnight service, with seating accommodation. So he could be anywhere!'
Skinner stared at Martin, stone-faced. 'Magic. A back gate and we didn't know about it!'
`Boss, it was overgrown.'
`So bloody what. We're policemen Andy, not spectators.' He slapped his hand, palm down, on the table.
'What d'you think might have happened? Did he call L'Escala and get the wrong story about Vaudan?'
'I told you, no one knows the truth there except Arturo. Anyway, he'll still be recovering. No, there's a likelier explanation.' Skinner pressed his hands-free intercom. 'Ruth, get me the Leicester remand centre. I want to speak to the guy who was in charge, yesterday afternoon and last night, of the floor Monklands is on.'
Skinner, Martin and Rose sat in heavy silence for just under three minutes. When the phone sounded, Skinner snatched it up on the first ring. 'Yes.'
`Senior Officer Morgan is on the line, sir.'
`Thanks.'
Ruth switched the call through.
`Mr Morgan, you had Norman Monklands under your care yesterday. Did he make a phone-call?'
The voice on the other end had a heavy Welsh accent, 'Yes, sir, I'm afraid he did. I know he was supposed to be denied access to the pay-phone but, with it being Sunday and all, I had a couple of probationers on duty with me. One of them made a mistake, and let him make a call. I gave the lad a bollocking when I found out, mind you.'
`What time did he make this call?'
`Oh, t'would be about nine thirty in the evening.' `I don't suppose your lad checked the number.'
– 'No, sir. Well, we can't, see.'
`Right. Have someone check with BT now, and get the number that he called, just to confirm our suspicions.'
`Very good, sir.'
Skinner hung up. 'That's the answer. Norrie Monklands couldn't stop himself. He had to warn his mate about Lucan. Christ, we'll be lucky if we ever see Ainscow again.'
Martin looked crestfallen. 'I'm sorry, boss. I've blown it. I'll take the flak.
Skinner shook his head. 'Not alone, you won't. I'm to blame too. I should have put the fear of Jehovah into Monklands about what would happen to him if he made a call. And to make double certain, I should have repeated my instruction to the remand unit that he was to be kept away from the phone.'
He stood up. Only three things to do, Andy. Tell Neil to make sure that he hasn't left a trace of his presence in Ainscow's house, keep watching it — front and back — in case he comes back after a couple of days; and keep tabs on Cocozza everywhere he goes. I want a report on every step that wee man takes.'
Eighty-eight
Skinner hated the feeling of being becalmed.
In his early days as a detective, a senior colleague had nicknamed him ‘jaws', not because of the voracity of his appetite but because, like a hunting fish, it seemed that he could only live if he were moving perpetually forward.
Now, as Monday stretched into Tuesday, and on into Wednesday, without a sighting of Paul Ainscow or a wrong move by Richard Cocozza, he felt a mounting frustration based on every detective's dread that an investigation, in which he requires only a single piece of evidence, had stalled. Skinner's trail had gone cold, and he hated the feeling.
He countered that by throwing himself into other work, at the office and at home. His in-tray was flattened in record time during what remained of Monday, and on Tuesday he went to Leith to begin what he intended would be a week-long tour of unannounced inspections of divisional CID offices. At home he joined Sarah in her tending of their minimum maintenance garden, where he began to build the walls of a sand-pit for Jazz.
On Wednesday morning, he had been about to leave for Hawick, when Ruth came into his office. 'Sir, the Chief called. He has a doctor's appointment this morning, and it's just been delayed by two hours. He's due to go to a civic lunch today as the guest of the Dean of the Faculty of Advocates, and he wonders if you would take his place.'
`Yes, sure. I've got nothing better to do. Where is it?'
`The Balmoral. Drinks at twelve forty-five.'
The Balmoral Hotel, which is still known to most of Edinburgh by its former name, the North British, is one of two great hotels which stand like bookends at either end of Princes Street, vying with each other constantly for the accolade of being Number One in the public perception. After a period of neglect, a multi-million-pound refit and a high-powered management team led by a Scots trouble-shooter with international experience, had restored the Balmoral to the point at which it could compete with its rival, the Caledonian, on equal terms. Its kilted doorman greeted Skinner with a professional smile, and directed him to the hotel's main banqueting hall, a long room with windows which looked westward along the length of Princes Street. He was still looking around the throng for his host, when he heard him call out, 'Bob! Over here.'
Archie Nelson was standing by the window with a glass of white wine in his hand. Skinner accepted a glass of red from the waiter at the door, and walked across the room to join him.
`Hi, Archie. Sorry Jimmy had to drop out. It's his six-monthly at the Murrayfield, and his doc was delayed. So I'm afraid you've got me instead.'
Nelson smiled. 'I suppose I can make do.' The Dean of the Faculty of Advocates, Scotland's senior practising lawyer, was a round, jolly man with prematurely grey hair and twinkling eyes which had beguiled many a witness, only to turn to gimlets as the serious cross-examination began. He had been in post for almost a year, elected in the wake of the elevation to judicial office of his predecessor, David Murray. He and Skinner were old friends, having been allies during Nelson's successful spell as a High Court prosecutor.
`I should know, Archie,' said the Assistant Chief Constable quietly, 'but what's the reason for this beanfeast?'
`Football, would you believe: The City Fathers, whom I represent on occasion, thought it would be a good idea to hold a lunch in honour of Heart of Midlothian winning the Scottish Cup. Thereby they caused outrage and alienated the two-thirds of the population who support Hibernian, Rangers or Celtic. The row gave the Evening News front-page banner headlines for three days on the trot. I'm surprised you didn't know.'
`I've been away a lot recently. Sarah and I went off on a holiday of sorts after the baby was born.'
Nelson's face was wreathed in a sudden smile. 'Oh, yes, I heard about that. A son, I heard. Congratulations. How's he doing?'
`Absolutely great. Sleeps a lot, smiles a lot, shits a lot. That just about sums up the boy's life at the moment.'
`That's quite a gap between your offspring. How is Alex, by the way?'
`Fine as far as I know. I've been trying to catch up with her all week. Haven't succeeded yet. She's got a new man, I think.' `Yes, I heard a rumour. Was it a surprise to you?'
Skinner looked at him, slightly puzzled, but before he could respond he was interrupted by a diffident cough and a quiet familiar voice. 'Hello, Mr Skinner. Remember me?'
He turned to find Greg Pitkeathly at his shoulder.
`I haven't had a chance to thank you for sorting that matter out for me. Paul Ainscow sent me a cheque and a note of explanation. I'm glad I've got my money back, but that was a terrible thing about Santi Alberni. A major fraud, Ainscow said. How big was it, can you tell me?'
`About a million sterling.'
`Good God! No wonder he hung himself rather than face that.'
`Mmm,' Skinner muttered. 'Convenient all round.
`You know, it was a bit macabre for me, that time,' said Pitkeathly. 'Death seemed to be following me around. I spoke to Tony Manson only a few days before I saw you, and then he was murdered. I go looking for Alberni, and he dies. They say that death comes in threes. I'm glad that hasn't been true in this case.'
`Don't be so sure,' said Skinner. 'You say you spoke to Tony Manson. How well did you know him?'
`Not very. I'm a curler. A member of his club. We used to pass the time of day, but I'd heard too much talk about him to want to be a close friend.'
`When you spoke to him,' asked Skinner, 'did you mention your Spanish problem?'
`As a matter of fact, I did.'
`Did he seem interested?'
`As a matter of fact, he did.'
`Did you tell him you were coming to see me?'
Pitkeathly thought for a second. 'Yes, I did. He asked if I wasn't going a bit over the top. I remember saying he should try telling that to my wife! Poor man. Whatever he may or may not have been, that was a brutal way to die.'
At the far end of the room, the toastmaster's gavel called the gathering to order.
`Must go,' said Pitkeathly. 'Thanks again for sorting it all out.' He slipped away into the throng.
`What was all that about?' asked Archie Nelson.
`I'm not sure,' said Skinner softly, as if he had been asking himself the same question. 'Maybe nothing at all. Maybe a hell of a lot. Either way, I'm going to have to find out.'
Eighty-nine
‘Now isn't that interesting, boys?’.
Skinner looked at Andy Martin and Brian Mackie across the low coffee table. He had fidgeted his way through the excellent Balmoral lunch, through the diffident speech by the Heart of Midlothian manager, and through the rather more fulsome address by the club chairman. But even before the applause had died away, he had called headquarters for a pick shy;up car.
Now, back in his office, Andy Martin caught his mood at once. 'Isn't it just, boss. It's just a wee thread, but who knows what it's tied into. Alberni and Inch, two of the very few people who either knew about the InterCosta fraud or were linked into it, have both wound up dead. Now we find out that Tony Manson, who bank-rolled the company in the first place, was told about it too — just before he died a violent death.'
`Spot on,' said Skinner, 'Maybe a pure coincidence, but it's something that makes alarm bells go off in our policemen's minds. So what are we going to do about it?' He glanced at Brian Mackie.
`There's only one thing left for us to do, sir, as I see it anyway, and that's to pull in Richard Cocozza. Ainscow's done his runner: we may never see him again. We've been waiting either for Lucan to show, or for some lucky break that might kick-start the investigation again. This may be all the luck we're going to get. We've found out that Manson knew about the fraud. Did it come as a surprise to him? Was he bothered about it? Did he talk to anyone about it? Wee Cocozza's the only person left for us to ask. Let's have him in.'
Skinner looked at Andy Martin. The blond head nodded.
`Right. I agree. Go and get him, lads. Bring him here, rather than taking him to Torphichen Place. Let's make the wee bugger feel important. Let's give him the Head Office treatment.'
Ninety
‘You are cer
tain that he's in there, Mario?'
Abso-bloody-lutely, sir. He left here at eight thirty-two, and walked to his office in Queen Street. I tailed him myself, and young John brought the car round. He left again at eleven fifty-three and walked back here. I tailed him again. Here he's been ever since; that's, what, three hours and a quarter. All that time I've been watching the front door, and John's been watching the garden gate.'
'Is there a Mrs Cocozza?'
Not here, sir. They separated a year ago.'
Richard Cocozza's flat was on the ground floor of a converted grey stone mill-house on the banks of the Water of Leith, where the river wound its way through Dean Village, a city-centre enclave whose quaintness had been eroded by the attempts of various property developers to make it exclusive. The entry-phone system seemed to be in working order, but repeated pressing of the button alongside the name `Cocozza' had produced not a sound from the intercom.
`Try another,' said Martin.
Mario McGuire began to press other buttons in turn, beginning with the other ground-floor flats, and working up the building. On the fourth attempt there was a response.
`Yes?' A male voice answered, sleep-sodden even through the tinniness of the speaker.
`Sorry to disturb you, sir, but this is the police. We have to call on one of the flats in this building. Could you come down and let us in, please.'
`Yeah, sure.'
Less than a minute later, a dishevelled young man in a blue towelling robe emerged from the lift, which faced the glass entry door. He walked barefoot across the hall, and turned the wheel of the Yale lock. 'I suppose I should ask to see-'
Before he could finish his sentence, McGuire held up his warrant card.
`Of course you should, sir. Sorry we had to wake you. Night shy;shift, are you?'
The man nodded. 'This week anyway. I work in the bakery in Leith.'
`Okay, you get back to sleep, then. We'll make as little noise as we can.
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