'Have you excluded everyone?' asked Skinner from the side.
Mackie glanced at Martin and raised an eyebrow, slightly.
'No, sir. One subscriber wasn't in. However the folk next door told me that he was a seventy-year-old widower, who'd gone off in a 96
w'
a
hurry on Sunday to visit his sick grandson. Other than that, though, I've seen them all. Of the other five, four were middle-aged couples, and the fifth was an old lady in a retirement community.'
'Very good, Janice,' said Mackie, hurriedly taking back control of the meeting. 'Sergeant Spring, wil you please report on the house-by-house check.'
Spring, the older Sergeant, nodded. 'We're going as fast as we can, sir. Some of the houses we know are a dead loss, but like Janice, we have to be seen to be calling on everyone, so it's taking a while.
There's been nothing suspicious so far.'
'How about empty houses?' asked Martin. 'Have you encountered any?'
'Seven, so far,' said Spring. 'Five of them have no known local key-holder, two have a key-holder known to us, and the other is believed to have a local caretaker, but the neighbours don't know who that is. They keep themselves to themselves in Gullane, right enough, sir.' All at once the Sergeant gulped, visibly, and glanced across at Skinner.
The DCC himself broke the ensuing silence. 'What have you done about the empties, John?' he asked.
'Had a good look round, sir, as far as we could. There didn't seem to be anything out of the ordinary, anywhere.'
Skinner nodded and leaned back in his seat.
Mackie looked at the officer beside Spring. 'Sergeant Carney, you've been doing the pubs. Any feedback?'
'Some, sir. It's a pity it was a Saturday. During the week the firemen from the Training School would have been around, and they'd have been going home around that time, sober mostly, and potential y good witnesses.
'As it was we found a couple of guys who admitted they were passing the phone box, just before eleven. They were a bit shifty like, so we pressed them. One of them finally admitted that he had a piss in it on the way past.'
'And presumably, Phil, there was no-one else in it at the time,'
said Maggie Rose, with a grim, disapproving smile.
'Not that he mentioned, ma'am.'
Mackie clasped his hands together and leaned forward. 'So that's it then, is it? Phone subscribers clear; nothing from the house-to-house; nothing from the pubs. Blanks all round.'
He looked round the table, from face to face. 'In that case, we'd al best go back and get on with the house-to-house, as quickly as possible.'
He was almost in the act of rising, when Skinner leaned forward.
'There is just one other thing, Superintendent,' he said. Martin, Mackie and Rose looked at him, their surprise undisguised.
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'Mcl henney has something to report. Go on, Neil.'
The bulky Sergeant shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He looked along the table at Mackie. 'We had a tip, sir,' he began, 'that two people, man and woman, were near the phone box when the call was made.' The Superintendent looked back, stone-faced. His Special Branch experience stil fresh in his mind, he knew better than to ask where the information had come from if Skinner's aide had not volunteered the fact.
'On the boss's instruction, I did some asking around. I'm assured that they're a couple called Grayson, Michael and Rose, of 12
Carnoustie Terrace, in the village.'
The DCC leaned forward again. 'I know you're hard pressed with the house-to-house, so I thought Neil and I would check them out.
Just to keep our hands in, so to speak. That al right with you, Brian?'
'Of course, boss,' said Mackie, managing to suppress his sigh.
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'Watch this bend, Neil.'
Sergeant Mcllhenney believed that, if you were any good at the business of life, you would learn something new every day. For him, Tuesday's unexpected lesson was that Bob Skinner was a nervous passenger in a motor car.
Al the way along the coast road, the DCC had shifted uneasily in the passenger seat of the unmarked car which his personal assistant had drawn from the pool, the DCC having reasoned that his own car was too well known in Gul ane not to be noticed if it was parked outside a strange house. It was the first time that the Sergeant had ever driven his commander.
Now, as Mcllhenney took the Lufihess corner at scarcely more than fifty miles an hour, he pointed at the curve of the road, and barked his warning.
'No problem, boss. I've driven this road before you know.'
'Of course you have, Neil. Sorry. I just have this dislike of being driven, that's all. Especially there. It's where my first wife was killed.'
'Ah,' said Mcllhenney, understanding at once. 'You should have said. I just assumed that I'd be driving.'
'Quite right,' grunted Skinner. 'It's what personal assistants are for. Anyway, you have to confront your dislikes every so often, or they can become phobias.'
As the police car swung round the right-hand bend into Gullane, he began to give the Sergeant a series of directions. Finally, they turned a corner, into Carnoustie Terrace, Mcllhenney crawling along the kerbside until he spotted Number 12. 'There we are, boss,' he said cheerily. 'Ordeal over.'
The two policeman stepped from the car, into the warm sunshine of the summer day. There were no more than two dozen hoses in Carnoustie Terrace, linked, as its name suggested, in groups of six.
From the roughcast exterior Skinner's assistant guessed that they were Council-built, although he guessed by the variety of window and door styles that most were now in private ownership.
Number 12 did not have new UPVC windows. Its were wooden, modern enough, but matching only a few others in the street. He held the rusty metal gate open for Skinner and followed him into a 99
short driveway. The house was fronted by a dark green privet hedge, in need of a trim, and by weedy grass on either side of the path, in need of cutting. The blue-painted, half-glazed front door was scratched, and marked at the bottom, as if it was kicked regularly.
'No' exactly house-proud, sir,' muttered Mcl henney, as he pressed the white plastic bell-push.
They saw the figure approach through the obscured glass, seeming to shamble rather than walk. The door opened, slowly. Although the name had meant nothing to him when he had heard it first, Skinner recognised Rose Grayson at once. Part of the street furniture of the village; a presence on his occasional visits to the local pubs.
She was a big woman, aged anywhere between forty and fifty, five feet eight and fat, hipless, with a thick waist. Despite the fine weather, a nylon housecoat hung loosely round her shoulders, covering a dirty pink sweater and a crumpled grey dress. On her feet were carpet slippers, trimmed with grey-pink artificial fur. A cigarette hung loosely between the first two fingers of her right hand. At once Skinner formed a mental picture of her husband, Michael, skinny, badly suited, with a shock of greasy dark hair, and the permanent scowl of an evil disposition. The Graysons were a couple whom the rest of the village left to themselves.
Rose Grayson sighed, as if the unannounced appearance at her door of two strange men in suits was not an unusual occurrence.
'Aye?' she asked, wearily, with a permanently defeated tone to her voice.
'Police, Mrs Grayson,' Skinner announced. 'We'd like a word. Is your husband at work?'
'You must be fuckin'jokin', mister. He's out the back. Yis'd better come in.' She turned and led them into the house. The embossed wallpaper in the hal had been painted over, but a long time before.
Dirty curls made their way up from the skirting board. The living room looked like a war zone, littered with discarded newspapers, empty beer cans and ful ash trays. Automatical y the policemen breathed as gently as they could, trying to deflect the smell of the woman and of her shabby surroundings.
'Haud on a minute,' she said. 'Ah'll get Mick.' She stepped across to the window, white on
the outside with what looked like a seagull's message, and rapped on the glass. Outside the policemen saw a man in a deck chair, as he started, as if from sleep. He was wearing the crumpled trousers of a dark suit, braces and a blue-striped shirt. He was barefoot. Rose Grayson waved her husband into the house, and turned towards her visitors. In the light from the window, they noticed for the first time a bruise beneath her left eye.
A few seconds later, Mick Grayson came into the living room, tripping over the frayed edge of the carpet and stumbling as he entered, 100
cursing softly. 'Who've you?' he began, then looked at Skinner for the first time. 'Here, don't ah ken you? What d'yis want?'
'You might know me by sight, Mr Grayson,' said the DCC, 'but that's all. My name is Skinner, and this is Sergeant Mcllhenney. We're police officers.'
The man's chest puffed out aggressively. 'Ah havenae done anything.' He turned suddenly on his wife. 'You havenae been nickin'
fae the Co-op again, have ye, ya bitch?' he said, loudly. He made towards her, raising his right hand, as if to hit her. Before he had taken more than two steps Mcllhenney grabbed him by the wrist and swung him round.
Grayson made the merest of gestures towards him with his free hand, bunched into a fist, but stopped abruptly, as common sense, or self-preservation, took over. 'Wise man,' said the sergeant, giving the wrist a quick, painful squeeze before releasing it.
'Look,' said Skinner, 'for once we don't want to talk to you about anything you've done. We're looking for help with an investigation.'
Mick Grayson, subdued, looked at him. 'That's a'right then,' he said, managing, amazingly, to sound condescending. 'Whit is it?'
'We're told that you two were out on Saturday night, and that at around eleven you were having an argument just outside the vil age hal .'
Grayson looked blank. 'Were we?' he said.
His wife narrowed her eyes, her hand going to the bruise on her cheek. 'Aye,' she muttered, fiercely. 'We were.'
Her husband's eyes dropped. 'Oh aye, so we were.'
'What was the barney about?' Mcl henney asked.
Rose Grayson glowered. 'That yin bought himself a pint and ...'
Her voice soared with indignation, '.. . a whisky wi' the last of our money, and never got anything for me. Honest taste God, he's a miserable wee toerag wi' a drink in him, so he is. Come taste think of it, he's a miserable wee toerag a' the time.'
'Aye,' said Skinner,' but he's your miserable wee toerag, isn't he?'
He went on quickly. 'Right, we've got you two at the foot of the hill between the Post Office and Bissett's, having a ding-dong. Now think careful y. On your way past, and while this was going on, did you see anyone in the phone box?'
Mick Grayson shook his head. 'Naw,' said his wife.
'Think carefully, I said. This is important.'
Husband and wife, reproved, knitted their brows. But eventual y, they shook their heads. 'Naw,' said Mick, 'Ah honestly cannae remember.'
The DCC sighed. 'Well did you see anyone at all in the area?'
There was a pause. Rose looked at her spouse, a new hesitant look 101
in her eyes. 'Well,' she said finally, more to Mick than to the policemen, 'there was yon man.'
Grayson nodded, briefly, but it was enough. She looked back to Skinner and Mcl henney. 'We were havin' a bamey, like you said. I shoved Mick and he hut me. Just after that, this man appeared, door the hill, well-dressed like. Ah said taste him, "Did you see that, mister?"
He nodded his head and just went on. "Some fuckin' gent you," Ah shouted after him.
'He stopped at that, and he said taste Mick, "Don't hit the lady, then." He'd have walked on again, but Mick took a swing at him.'
'So what did he do, this man?' urged Skinner.
Grimly, unexpectedly, Rose Grayson smiled. 'He flattened the wee toerag, didn't he? Only hit him the wance, but he laid him as broad as he was long.' The smile broadened into a grin.
'Then what?'
'He turned away, got intae a motor in the vil age hal car park, and drove off, back up the hil . He just missed runnin' Mick over. More's the pity,' she added, sincerely.
Skinner looked at Mcl henney, and shook his head. 'Describe him,'
he snapped.
She shrugged. 'Wee bit smal er than you, slim like, dark hair.'
Mick Grayson shook his head. 'Naw, he wisnae like that. He was tal er than yon man, and he had fair hair.'
'Come on,' Mcl henney barked, 'make up your minds. Fair hair?
Dark hair? Tal ? Short? Which is it?'
'Ah'm right,' said Rose.
'Naw ye're no'!' her husband insisted.
'Jesus Christ!' shouted Skinner, exasperated. 'We're agreed, then, that he wasn't a bald-headed dwarf He looked at Rose. 'How about his car? What colour was it?'
'Light,' she answered. 'But it was shining orange under the street light, so a couldnae tell for sure.'
'What make?'
She shrugged. 'Ah dinnae ken things like that.'
The DCC sighed. 'Okay, one last thing. When the guy got to the top of the hil , did he turn right or left?' She looked at him, befuddled.
'Towards North Berwick, or towards Aberlady?' he asked, patient once again.
She paused, then nodded. 'North Berwick. He wis heading for North Berwick,' she announced, with a smile of satisfaction.
Skinner nodded. 'Good. Something at least. Right, that's as far as we can take it. Come on, Neil.' The policemen headed for the doorway, until Skinner turned. He pointed at Mick Grayson.
'You,' he said, evenly. 'If I ever hear that you've hit your wife again, I'l have you barred from every pub in East Lothian.' He 102
strode off, leading Mcl henney out, into the fresh air.
'What a pair of disasters,' the Sergeant exploded, outside.
'Say that again,' Skinner agreed. 'Still, we've got something at least. Assuming it was our man, he was heading out of Gul ane.
There's nowhere beyond the Post Office where he wouldn't stick out like a sore thumb.'
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'Does it take you any further?'
Skinner shook his head. 'Not real y, Pam. I had hoped that we'd come up with a description of the guy, but not a double dose. That's worse than useless. We can hardly announce that we're looking for someone who's either tall and fair or stocky and dark, or issue two photofits.'
'Which one do you think is most likely to be accurate?' she asked.
'Hah! Take your pick on that one. The Graysons were both pissed as rats. The only thing she was certain about was the direction he took away from the scene.'
'And does that help?'
Skinner knitted his brows. 'Maybe it does. It tells me that if he does have the boy hidden, it isn't in Gullane itself. As I said to Big Neil, most of the holiday houses are to the west of the village. The eastern part was built much later. The houses are closer together, on smaller plots, and nearly all of them are occupied.'
'So what do you do next?'
'I've spoken to Andy. We've pretty well decided to tell the press tomorrow that we're widening the search to East Lothian. We can't knock on every door in the county, but there are quite a few empty properties in North Berwick. We can check them, at least.'
She looked at him doubtfully. 'Is there much chance of a result?'
He smiled, sadly. 'Next to bugger al ,' he admitted. 'But what else can we do? Andy'11 set the ball rol ing at his press briefing tomorrow.'
He leaned back on the couch, the remnants of his late supper still on a tray in his lap, and sighed. She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead.
'Cheer up, love,' she said. 'At least the investigation's still doing something'.
'Yes, but to what purpose? It's been three days since that phone cal : three days since the guy said that we'd hear from him again.
Three days with that wee boy at this nutter's mercy. "At my disposition," he said. It chills my blood, to think what might be happening to him.'
She stood up, took the tray from him, laid it on the floor, and tugged at his arm. 'Bob, enough,' she said. 'You look knackered and 104
you sound depressed. It's almost eleven. Let's go to bed, even if it's only to sleep.'
He nodded. 'Yes, okay.' He rose, wearily, taking her hand as she led him through to the bedroom.
The bedside lamp was stil on as she slipped in beside him, naked.
'Of course,' she said. 'We don't have to sleep.' He reached across, without a word, and switched the light off. They made love silently.
Pamela, inventive as always, took the initiative, allowing him time to settle his mind and drawing his attention towards her. And yet, even as he climaxed, with his lover bucking and writhing astride him, there was a part of his mind that was somewhere else.
She knew it, too. She was barely finished, before she rolled away and lay with her back to him in the dark. 'That was a new twist,' she said. 'It's usually the woman who fakes it!'
He was moved by the hurt in her voice. 'No, Pam, I didn't, honest.
It was good, great, like always. I just wasn't real y in the mood. I'm sorry, honey.' He put a hand on her hip, and leaned over her, kissing her neck. She turned on to her back, and looked up at him.
'What is it, then?' she asked. 'Second thoughts?'
He shook his head. 'Nothing to do with you and me,' he promised.
'I just can't get this man out of my mind. He's singled me out to be contacted. He kil ed Leona, and she was my friend. He kidnapped her son, the wee boy I rescued last year. It's as if he's speaking directly to me, and there's a taunt in it. He even came to my home village to call me.
'It's as if he's chal enging me to guess where he's hiding the kid.'
He stopped short, and she could see his eyes, gleaming in the light from the window. 'Can you imagine how angry that makes me?
And how frustrated?'
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