Head Shot bs-12

by Quintin Jardine

  14

  The grin was back in an instant. 'Wel. Now you mention it. Bob Skinner might have said something along those lines. Oh aye, and the Chief might have agreed with him an' all.' He looked at her, wholly serious for the first time. 'I'm not saying that this is going to happen tomorrow, but it pays to be ready. Al kidding aside, I've been doing my homework since I got here, as well as listening to what Bob and Sir James tell me. You got me in one, this wee chat's a sort of informal interview, and it's confirmed what they say.'

  She looked at him with raised eyebrows. 'You're easy to please.'

  'I make up my mind about people on the spot. It's the old CID thing; evidence is nice, but trust your instincts. In this case I've got both. So please, Maggie; think about it. And if it's just a matter of worrying about no' looking nice in the uniform shirt…'

  Her laugh interrupted him. 'Another girlie thing?'

  Once more, he flushed slightly. 'See me? See political correctness?

  We're strangers to each other. Let me put it another way, if you're one of the many detectives who've got out of the way of wearing the blue serge, you're like me. I keep it to the minimum and I let others do the same.'

  'Another reason why you and Mr Skinner get on,' Rose remarked. She took a deep breath. 'Okay, I'm duly flattered; and I wil think about it, if for no other reason than that it'l get me out of the same loop as Mario.'

  'Pleased to hear it,' the ACC said. 'You've made my day.' It was his turn to pause. 'In that case, to help you make an informed decision, I want you to sit in for Manny for a week or so. There's a situation in Strathclyde that's needing investigation by senior officers from outside forces. I've been asked to provide one and I've nominated him.

  'I briefed him on it yesterday; that was why he was late back. He's off through there as of now, and I want you to take temporary charge of the division. Before you ask, I've cleared it with Andy Martin and Clan Pringle. I'm not asking you to do the job actively in the way Manny does; delegate as much as you can, just take the command decisions, and keep me in touch as necessary. You game for that?'

  She scratched her chin. 'Well,' she answered, thoughtfully, 'we seem to be winning the battle against crime for the moment, so… I'm game.'

  'You've been on the command corridor long enough to know what I'm talking about,' said McGuire.

  'Sure,' Mcllhenney agreed. 'Special Branch still keeps an eye on the bogeymen; it's just that the accents have changed.'

  'Come on, man, that's too simplistic, even for you. The end of the Cold War changed what we do, sure, but less so than people think. The Irish problem didn't go away… stil hasn't… there are other international terrorist threats, as the folk in Lockerbie know too well, and there are the general nuisances we watch just in case. But on top of all that we've got a role to play alongside the mainstream police in tracking major or organised crime, and in gathering information on unusual domestic situations, when they might threaten the national interest.

  'Those fuel demonstrations were a good case in point. The first time the government was caught with its drawers round its ankles, and the word went out that it wasn't to happen again.'

  'I know about that,' Mcl henney chuckled. 'I saw some of the correspondence that came our way at the time.'

  'Aye, of course you did. I reckon that was a real sea change in our remit… which has always been, in effect, "Do what you're fucking told but don't let anyone find out about it." For the first time, it got us involved in keeping tabs on ordinary people, folk who aren't political, or organised in any meaningful way. They weren't threatening the country as such, just the government, yet we were brought into the act. 'I don't think I like that.'

  'It's a good time for you to be going, then.'

  'You approve of it?'

  'No, but the answer lies in the bal ot box…'

  McGuire threw him a glance askance. 'Do you actual y believe that?'

  'No, but fortunately it also lies in the hands of people like you and me and Big Bob, using our common sense.'

  'Don't let the people in the Home Office or up the Mound hear you say that.'

  'Worry not, pal. I'l be a conscientious Spock; I'll just do it my way, like the Boss told me to. Right; let's get into these files.'

  McGuire was reaching for his keys when his direct line telephone rang. He glanced at the panel on the instrument before he picked it up.

  'Hello, Ron,' he said. 'You real y should block your number, you know, especially when you're phoning people like me… not that it would do any good.' He waited. 'Yes? Excellent. I'm impressed. Hang on, let me grab a pen.'

  As his successor designate watched, he made rapid notes on a pad on his desk. 'That it? Fine, thanks. Sure, our debt to you is duly recorded.'

  He hung up, tore off the note, and put it into his pocket. 'Wel?'

  Mcllhenney asked, heavily.

  'He's alive; more's the pity, because he's bloody well here. There's a gap of twenty years in his UK Social Security record; during that time, he was living in Portugal and apparently paying contributions there. He came back to Britain three years ago. He spent a short time in London then moved back up to Edinburgh, only, according to my pal, he now calls himself George Rosewell. He lives in Newhaven Road.'

  'Why would he change his name? Does he think we might still be after him for wife-battering?'

  'God knows. Maybe the Portuguese police were after him; maybe someone else was.' An anxious look crossed the big detective's face, taking his friend by surprise. 'Listen, Neil,' he muttered. 'You're my best pal. You, and only you, know about Maggie's father knocking ten bells out of her mother and leaving them al. That's the way it's got to stay, okay?'

  'Of course. I'm huffed that you should even say that.'

  McGuire winced. 'Sorry, mate; I should have known better. It's just that she started talking about him the other night, which she's never done before. It came out the blue; something trivial happened at work and just seemed to trigger it off. Lots of stuff she'd never even hinted at, that had been bottled up in there. You think Mags is controlled? You don't know the half of it.

  'I won't go into detail, Neil, but the guy was a real fucking monster, worse than I ever suspected. I just had to sit there… in a bloody restaurant, it was… and let her get it al out, doing my best to keep calm, when inside I'm exploding, wanting to kil the bastard. I can't do that, of course, I can't touch him. It all has to stay in the past for her sake. Still, I had to find out at the very least whether he's still alive; hence my cal to Ron. But now I'm in a real quandary.'

  'Howzat?'

  'Because of what he does for a living. Mr George Rosewell is the janitor in a primary school, right here in Edinburgh; right here in Maggie's division.'

  15

  It was just after midday, yet Skinner had to force himself not to think about the weariness which gripped him. He had been such a short time in Kuala Lumpur that his body had not even begun to catch up with the time change, before he had flown on to the United States. Three-quarters of the way around the world, and he had never been able to sleep on board aircraft. His Mont Blanc watch, stil set on UK time, told him that the jet lag should be no more severe than if he had flown across the Atlantic, but his biological clock ticked out a different message.

  'Round the next bend, there should be a turn-off to the right,' said the FBI agent with the map. They had been driving for twenty minutes since they pul ed off the highway, along a road on the west side of the Great Sacandaga Lake which was little more than a forest track. The trees were mature and even as early in the growth cycle as they were, the woods on either side were dark and deep. He thought of Robert Frost and his horse as he looked at them, and wondered what they would be like in winter.

  The two agents, Isaac Brand, the navigator, and Troy Kosinski, the driver, had been waiting for him at JFK, as Doherty had promised. He had spotted them at once; they looked the part, fit, lean and sharp-eyed.

  They had whisked him across the airport to a small exec
utive jet, which in turn had whisked them al to a local landing strip near Saratoga Springs, in what had seemed to Skinner, after his two marathon flights, to have been no time at all.

  'Okay, there it is,' Brand cal ed to his partner. 'That should take us directly to the crime scene.' The Scot glanced at the agent. He had a cynic's view of the modem FBI agent, seeing them in his mind's eye either as short, feisty women, or as square-shouldered, clean-cut guys, and he was quietly pleased that this one was an exception to his rule. His fine features gave him a vulnerable look, although the DCC knew that he must have passed the toughest physical examination to have earned his seat in their car.

  Kosinski, who did fit his mental stereotype, made the turn; the road narrowed and at once, the day grew darker. 'Fucking hell,' Skinner exclaimed. 'Either of you guys seen The Blair Witch Project?

  The driver looked in the rearview mirror, catching his eye. 'We can't comment on that, sir,' he said in a lazy drawl. 'It's the subject of a continuing Bureau investigation.'

  'Sure,' Zak Brand chuckled. 'There's an X-File on it. We could arrange for you to meet Scully, if you'd like.'

  'No thank you, gentlemen,' he answered. 'She's too short for me.' He was grateful for the banter; it kept his mind off what was waiting at the end of the track. All the way from New York, they had exchanged only pleasantries and platitudes. The FBI men had asked no personal questions, nor had they referred to the reason behind his visit. But finally, they were almost there.

  'Do you know the people who'l be meeting us?' he asked.

  'No, sir,' said Special Agent Kosinski, glancing in the mirror once again. 'We're New York City operatives; this is not territory where we'd normal y be deployed, unless an interstate crime was involved.' Skinner nodded; he knew enough about American policing to understand the rivalries between the agencies. 'This is the jurisdiction of the New York State Police Department homicide squad. The local county police department is very small; they don't have a detective division, so when they run across something like this, they cal for help, damn quick.'

  Ahead, the gloom seemed to lighten, and the track widened out.

  'Almost there, sir.' The agent slowed the car, a big General Motors off roader, as he approached a small clearing. A black Pontiac saloon, with State Police markings, and a Ford Explorer were parked at its edge, on either side of a mailbox, which was set on a pole. He leaned out and read the name on it. 'Grace. Yup, this is it.'

  The three men climbed out of the vehicle. Skinner saw that there was a path behind the box; through the trees he could make out the broad shape of a single-storey, chalet-style house. He sniffed the air; it was crisp and fresh, and in the distance he heard water lapping and birds crying. They set off. Brand and Kosinski taking the lead on the narrow walkway.

  One crime scene looks like any other. Skinner thought as, final y, he reached his destination. We follow the same rituals, with the tape and everything… as if that's worth a damn out here.

  'Hey there in the house,' Brand cal ed out as they stepped around the side of the cabin.'FBI!'

  The front door creaked as it opened, and two men stepped out; as he looked at them, the Scotsman found himself thinking in American football terms. A quarter-back and his minder. They were both blond and 56 clean-shaven; one was around six feet tall, wide at the shoulders, narrow at the waist, probably in his mid-thirties, the other a few years younger, and enormous, his body looking as if it was fighting its way out of his clothes. About six eight. Skinner guessed, weight at least three hundred pounds. He wondered how he had squeezed into the Pontiac.

  'Hi,' the smal er man greeted them, as he walked down the steps from the porch. 'You didn't need to tell me you were the Bureau guys. I'd have known you by those suits. I'm Dave Schultz, lieutenant, State Police Bureau of Criminal Investigation…' He directed their eyes behind him with his thumb.'… And this is Detective Toby Small, one of life's great ironies.' The giant gave them an amiable grin.

  Schultz looked at Skinner. 'So you, sir, must be the victims' son-in law. Deputy Chief Skinner, is that right?'

  The Scot nodded, reaching out a handshake; there was enough in the lieutenant's tone to tell him that, alien or not, his rank was going to count for something.

  'Did you have a good flight from Scotland, sir?'

  'No. I had a long flight from Malaysia.' He decided that a little more personal information would do no harm. 'I was due to address an international drugs conference there.'

  'You got that problem too?' asked Smal, as if to prove that he could speak.

  Skinner glanced up at him. 'Detective, everyone has that problem. In our case we have one of the largest unprotected coastlines in Europe. So every comedian with a boat thinks he can stuff his ballast tanks with hashish, sail it up to Wester Ross, offload it and get away clean. More often than not he's right, as well.'

  His eyes snapped back on to Schultz. 'Okay. Let's get something out of the way. Was it either of you guys who phoned my wife?'

  The New York policeman seemed to recoil slightly; he held up a hand as if to ward Skinner off. 'No, sir,' he said, vehemently. 'It was not. We heard about that and we apologise that it happened. It was one of the local guys, playing detective before we got here. Don't worry, he's had his balls fried.'

  'Well make sure he's kept out of my way, or I'l make him eat them.'

  He caught Smal gazing at him with an expression that he had seen once in the eyes of a police dog as it looked at its handler.

  'Okay, gentlemen,' he continued, 'if I can have a look at the house.

  Are your technicians finished up here?'

  'Yes, sir,' the lieutenant answered. 'They're all done. As you requested we've left the scene as close as we could to the way it was when we got here… apart from the bodies, of course. They've been taken to the morgue in Loudonvil e, our regional headquarters. After we're done here, the coroner would like you to go there: he prefers for a family member to make a formal identification. We've put a hold on the autopsies til you've done that.'

  Skinner shivered inwardly; outwardly he nodded briskly, as he headed up the short flight of steps, on to the veranda. The New York detectives fol owed him up, but his Bureau escorts stayed below, anxious, he guessed, not to offend local sensibilities by intruding on to their scene.

  'How were they found?' the DCC asked Schultz. 'That part of the story was pretty vague.'

  The lieutenant pointed out towards the expanse of lake, which could be seen from where they stood. As he did so, Skinner noticed a jetty, with a small powerboat moored against it. 'A neighbour of Mr and Mrs Grace was out in his cruiser, getting set for some dawn fishing. He saw that the porch light was on, and that the front door was open. He came ashore to check the place out and found them. He called the nearest police office, in Edinburg.'

  Skinner's eyes screwed up as his momentary bewilderment registered on his face. 'Where?' he asked.

  'Edinburg,' Schultz repeated. 'It's the nearest township, although it's barely big enough to warrant a dot on the map.'

  He shook his head wondering whether it was simply coincidence, or whether it had been the name that had first attracted Leo to this remote place. 'I see,' he murmured. 'This fisherman guy: he's been checked out, has he?'

  'Yes, sir. We're satisfied that's how it really was. The guy's over seventy; even if he had a grudge against the Graces, he couldn't have kil ed them like that.'

  'No, I guess he couldn't. Time of death?'

  'Around 9 p.m., the coroner reckoned; give or take an hour, he said. It was very cold through that night.'

  Skinner looked down at the rocking chair, at rest now on the wide porch, to the left of the front door as he faced it. A chalk circle had been drawn around it. There was a cushion on the seat, untethered but stil in place, the shape of its occupant's buttocks stil showing clearly in it.

  'Nothing's been touched? That cushion's as it was found?'

  'Yes, sir. You'll see the crime scene photographs, but the old man was sat in his chair just
as if he had died in his sleep. That's what Mr 58

  Southern, the neighbour, thought at first, til he went inside.'

  The DCC nodded and walked indoors, into a big living room, with a great hearth, filled with the grey ashes of a log fire. He looked around; the place looked as if it had been turned over by an expert in a hurry.

  Most of the cushions of the leather suite stood on end, left in those positions by whoever had searched under them. The drawers and doors of a big farmhouse sideboard lay open. Books had been stripped from their shelves, flipped open, he guessed, then thrown on the floor. His father-in-law's flap-front desk, which he remembered from the den in his Buffalo house, had been ripped open. The chisel which the kil er had used lay beside it. The whole scene, furniture, books, every loose object in the room was covered in white fingerprint powder. 'You've been thorough,' Skinner murmured.

  'Yes, sir,' the lieutenant agreed. 'We always are.'

  'Did you lift any prints?'

  'Nada. We got prints of Mr and Mrs Grace, Mr Southern, and the cleaning lady, plus one or two wild ones, but we don't think that any of those belong to the perpetrator. They were in the wrong places for him.'

  'One perpetrator?'

  'There's no indication that there was more than one perp. There are creaking boards al over the deck outside, yet Mr Grace was taken completely by surprise; my gut feeling is that this was a lone burglar.'

  'Did he get anything, do you think?'

  'We'l need you or someone else to do an inventory, but as far as we can tell he got money, cards, watches, rings, other valuables: everything you'd expect in a robbery.'

  The big Scots policeman shook his head. 'Not everything, Lieutenant Schultz, not everything.' He picked up a book from the floor, and held it out. 'See this? It's a first edition ofMoby Dick, and it's signed by Herman Melville.' He looked at the volumes on the floor and selected another, then turned to the flyleaf. 'That signature? James Thurber. If you root around here for long enough you'l find first editions signed by Mark Twain, Ernest Hemingway, Margaret Mitchell and God knows who else.