Skinner's Mission bs-6

by Quintin Jardine

  65

  She sat up in bed, her legs pulled up under her chin. It had been a long time since her parting from Alan Royston, and since a man had spent a night under her roof.

  The heating had been on all night and, despite the winter outside, the room was hot, so she had thrown back the heavy quilt. She was still thinking as she had been when she had fallen asleep, of his surprising vulnerability, and of his obvious helplessness in the face of his split from his wife. She knew the feeling herself, having been through divorce, and she knew that it was an area too personal and subjective for her to lend any more support than a sympathetic ear.

  She jumped when the bedside telephone rang, and looked automatically at the alarm clock. It showed 7.19 a.m. Wondering who the early morning caller could be, she picked up the phone. ‘3179,’ she answered.

  ‘Pamela.’ A clear voice, familiar to her already, came down the line. ‘It’s DCS Martin here. I don’t suppose the Boss told you where he was going last night, did he? I need to contact him, but I can’t raise him at Gullane, and his mobile’s switched off. He’s not at his Edinburgh number either.’

  She gulped, and hesitated for a second, before making up her mind. ‘Actually, he’s here, sir,’ she told the Head of CID. ‘He drove me home last night, then got snowed in. Hold on, I’ll call him.’ She jumped out of bed and slipped on her robe, then skipped across the living room.

  ‘Boss,’ she called out, loudly, rapping on the closed door of the spare room. ‘Telephone. It’s Mr Martin. You can take it in the kitchen if you like.’

  ‘Okay, Pam, thanks,’ came the voice from within. ‘I heard it ring. I’m just coming.’

  A few seconds later the door opened and he stepped out, barefoot, with a black shadow around his jawline, and wearing the trousers of his suit. He smiled at her and headed for the kitchen. As he passed, she could see, showing red and vivid still, the scar of the surgery through which his life had been saved a few months earlier.

  Skinner took the phone from its cradle on the wall. ‘What’s the matter, Andy? Did you lift Terry earlier than planned?’

  ‘We never got to Torphichen, Boss. We picked up a treble-9 call forty-five minutes ago from the cleaner in his office in Stafford Street. That’s where I’m calling from. I think you should get up here.

  ‘The Comedian won’t be turning the key on Jackie Charles for us, I’m afraid. At least not without the aid of a medium. His brains are all over the floor, and he isn’t getting the joke at all.’

  66

  Skinner showered, then shaved, using a razor and foam left months before by Alan Royston. He was barefoot, but otherwise fully dressed when he rejoined her in the kitchen. She had thrown on jeans and a sweatshirt. Two mugs of coffee, a plate of buttered toast, and another of sliced tomatoes were set out on the breakfast bar.

  He looked at her and smiled. ‘Royston didn’t leave any socks behind, did he? I hate wearing the same pair twice running.’

  She shook her tousled head. ‘No, he didn’t. He never wanted to move in . . . not that I’d have let him, mind.’

  ‘More fool Royston,’ said Skinner, taking her by surprise. ‘Sound man, Alan. He’s good at what he does, but he lacks imagination. I expect he’ll be on the scene at Stafford Street.’

  Pam frowned. ‘It’s a big blow, isn’t it, losing Douglas Terry?’

  ‘Yes it is, in terms of getting Jackie Charles. We’re not just back to square one, we’re right off the board. Terry was our best hope of a lead to Carole’s killer too. I tell you, Pamela, it’s worrying.’

  She handed him his coffee. ‘It’s not the end of the world. Something else will turn up to incriminate Charles.’

  He peered into the mug. ‘There’s no Bailey’s lurking in here, is there?’ His half-smile vanished as quickly as it had come. ‘No, lass, that’s not what’s worrying me. It’s the way the little bastard’s been ahead of us every step of the way. It’s getting to me.’

  ‘Terry was murdered, I take it.’

  ‘Unless he smashed the back of his own head in, yes he was.’

  She grimaced. ‘You sure you don’t want me to come with you?’

  ‘Senior copper’s tip number one. Never volunteer to go to a murder scene. No, you go to the office as usual, check the incoming paper, then make an appointment for the two of us to check the register of property titles. We’ve got Thirty-First Nominees Limited to follow up, remember.’

  She laughed, as he straightened his tie. ‘You’re really chuffed with yourself for turning up that company, aren’t you. Jackie Huish, indeed.’

  Placing his mug back on the breakfast bar, he looked at her, almost conspiratorially. ‘Listen,’ he said quietly, ‘even a Deputy Chief Constable can still get a kick out of being a smart-arse. Only . . .’

  ‘. . . No-one loves a smart-arse!’ They laughed in unison, until Pam picked up the toast and tomatoes. ‘Come on, let’s finish this lot next door.’ She headed back through to the living room, back to the green leather sofa, while he went back to the spare room to put on socks and shoes. Then, with the plates on the cushion between them they shared breakfast and drank their coffee, looking out of the window at the new day. The snow had stopped and the temperature seemed to have risen. As they watched, a great bank of snow slid off the Malmaison roof and crashed to the ground.

  She grinned up at him. ‘Well, at least you’re not snowed in any more. We’re back in the real world.’

  ‘Still,’ he said. ‘I enjoyed last night. It was good to find someone else that I can talk to. There aren’t many people in that category, I can tell you. Four, apart from you . . .’ He hesitated. ‘Sorry, make that three.’

  ‘So your problems don’t look any better in the daylight, ’ she said, softly.

  He shook his head. ‘I just don’t know, Pam, and that’s the God’s truth. But I can’t lose this feeling that the Sarah I loved isn’t there any more, and I guess she feels the same about me.’

  She looked down at her coffee and frowned. ‘Maybe you’ll find each other again.’

  ‘Maybe we will, Pam. Maybe we will. But right now, neither of us knows how to go about that . . . or even if we want to start. I never believed it could happen, but our marriage has broken down.’

  ‘I know it has,’ she said. ‘Otherwise last night you would have called the Traffic boys without a second thought.’ She reached across and tapped his chest. ‘In here,’ she said. ‘Each of you has to start searching in here. Maybe those other people you spoke of haven’t gone away; maybe they’re just hiding.’

  She frowned at him, suddenly. ‘D’you love Sarah?’

  He hesitated. ‘Look . . .’

  ‘Sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m going too far.’

  He sighed. ‘No, Pam, you’re not. To be honest, six months ago I’d have said, “Yes, with all my heart.” But I have a big hang-up over trust. To me, it’s everything. So I fear you hit on the answer just a few seconds ago. If I still loved her, surely I wouldn’t be sitting here now. Last night, I would indeed have called the lads. Or better still, I’d have called Sarah and asked her to get her four-wheel drive out of the garage and come and get me.

  ‘It certainly never occurred to me to do that.’

  Bob stood up and stepped over to the window. Looking out, he said, ‘The way that things are between Sarah and me makes me feel indescribably sad. It’s like bereavement. You’re divorced. You should understand that.’

  Pamela stood up and came to his side. ‘Yes, I understand it. But the only advice I can give you from my experience is not to throw away the keys to any door you’ve locked behind you, until you’re absolutely sure that you’ll never want to walk back through it.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Bob. ‘But maybe there’s a new complicating factor.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Ah, I can’t tell you that. Not just yet. Maybe it’s there, maybe it isn’t. I’ll know in time.’

  ‘Ah well,’ she sighed. ‘If all else fails, you can do what
I did after I left David. You can throw yourself into your work. At least Fettes is a constant.’

  ‘Don’t be so sure,’ he said with a grin, and started to head for the door.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Never mind. I still have some secrets, even from my PA.

  ‘Thanks yet again for last night, Pamela. But now I’d better head up to Stafford Street. Dougie Terry won’t keep for ever.’

  67

  The Comedian was smiling . . . or so it seemed as Skinner bent over the body, in the cramped little attic office. Douglas Terry lay face-down, with his head turned to the side, and the corner of his mouth turned up in a grinning rictus.

  The back of his head was indeed smashed in, a red, black and grey mess of blood, hair and brain tissue, with bone chips mixed in.

  The scene of crime squad had finished its work and had gone, but Arthur Dorward remained behind. He, Andy Martin and Dave Donaldson, were the only other people in the room.

  ‘Do we have the weapon?’ asked the DCC.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Inspector Dorward. He held up a clear plastic bag, containing a short-handled hatchet, with a heavy iron head. It, and most of the wooden shaft were caked with blood. ‘The DIY stores sell hundreds of these every week, quite legally. The perfect murder tool, effective and untraceable.’

  ‘Effective is an understatement. What happened, Arthur?’

  ‘It seems pretty clear, sir. Terry walked into his office and someone was waiting for him, there behind the door, out of sight. One blow would have been enough, but our man made sure. He must have hit him half a dozen good wallops as he lay on the ground. There’s blood and brains all up the desk there, see?’

  ‘Time of death?’

  ‘The ME estimates around ten o’clock last night. She came up with that description of the murder, and I agree with her, as always. A tall man, she said. Slightly taller than Terry at any rate.’

  Skinner looked round at Andy Martin. ‘She?’

  He nodded. ‘She’s just gone.’

  ‘Was she here when you called me at Pam’s?’

  ‘That’s how I knew you weren’t at Fairyhouse Avenue,’ he said, wincing. ‘I never expected . . .’ He left the sentence unfinished.

  ‘Magic,’ Skinner whispered ironically, then turned to Dorward once more. ‘Anything else, Arthur?’

  ‘Yes, sir. This.’ He stepped across to a corner of the room, picked up a steel wastebin, and held it out for the DCC to inspect.

  Skinner looked inside. The walls of the rectangular bin were scorched, and on its base lay a tangled, shapeless black and white mess. He sniffed.

  ‘We’ll need to test it of course, but I’d reckon that it’s a binliner and plastic bags.’

  ‘Burned,’ said Skinner. ‘This bugger gets more thorough every time.’ He turned to Donaldson. ‘It’s a bastard, Dave, is it not?’ he said vehemently. ‘We’ve been trying for years to land this guy. At last, McCartney hands him to us on a plate, then this happens.

  ‘How did Charles know?’

  ‘McCartney must have had an arrangement to call someone, boss,’ said the Superintendent. ‘When he didn’t, maybe Terry reported it to Charles, and maybe Jackie decided that it was getting too close and that he’d have to play it safe.’

  Skinner looked down at the body. ‘It doesn’t get any safer than that,’ he growled. ‘Bang goes our chain of evidence leading up to Charles. With Terry dead, he’s probably out of business, but that’s small consolation if he’s still walking around as a free man.’

  ‘Maybe he won’t be out of business, sir,’ said Donaldson. ‘What if the guy who did this is ready to take Terry’s place?’

  The DCC laid a hand on the Superintendent’s shoulder, and looked at him, earnestly. ‘You really know how to cheer a man up, Flash, don’t you. If you’re right, then it’s up to you to go out there and catch him.’ He nodded at the corpse on the floor. ‘There’s no way that Jackie did this himself. He’s two or three inches shorter than Terry, and if my wife said that the killer was taller than him, you can take that as gospel.

  ‘McCartney and Kirkbride are in the nick, Barney Cogan’s dead, Willie Easson’s been lifted and Willie Macintosh is out of town. So who the hell else is there? And what’s the link that ties all the murders together?’

  He gave Donaldson’s shoulder a final pat. ‘You’re the man on the ground, Dave. I’m counting on you, above all, to give us the answers.’

  68

  The Roman Catholic Metropolitan Cathedral of St Mary is probably the most understated seat of any of that Church’s British Archbishops. Dwarfed by its neighbours, the St James Shopping Centre and the monstrous New St Andrew’s House, it sits in relative anonymity, looking out at Paolozzi’s massive bronze sculptures, across Picardy Place, past the statue of Sherlock Holmes, over the seemingly eternal gap site and on to the northern slopes of Calton Hill.

  Unlike its Episcopalian namesake a mile and a half to the west, it has no impressive spires, no tower of bells, nothing other than a flight of wide steps leading up to its ever open doors.

  Morning mass had just ended as Sir James Proud stepped out of his car, picking his way around the puddles and the heaps of fast-melting snow, and climbed the stairway, past a trickle of departing worshippers. He was dressed, as was almost invariably the case during his working day, in full uniform, complete with black military belt. Automatically he swept off his cap as he entered the cathedral, looking round until his gaze fell upon a young curate. He advanced upon the priest.

  ‘I’m looking for his Eminence,’ he said. ‘He is expecting me,’ he added, to quell the surprise in the young man’s eyes.

  ‘In that case, sir, if you’ll follow me.’ He led the Chief Constable up the aisle, making a blessing at the altar, before turning across the nave, and heading for a side exit. They stepped into a small corridor, on the far side of which was a heavy oak door. The young priest rapped hard with his knuckles, and opened it, on a muffled shout from within.

  Sir James nodded his thanks and stepped past him into the room. ‘Hello, Gilbert,’ he said, smiling and offering his hand. ‘Good of you to see me at such short notice.’

  Cardinal Gilbert White, acknowledged leader of the Roman Catholic Church in Scotland, crossed his spacious study, greeting him warmly. ‘Nonsense, Jimmy. We are princes, you and I: you of the City, I of the Church. A simple courtesy between us which you would have extended to me also.’

  The small eyes twinkled beneath the round red skull-cap. ‘Besides, you fascinate me as always. “A very delicate and confidential matter,” you said. These sources of yours never cease to amaze me. But how did you know this time? It was only confirmed yesterday afternoon.’

  Proud stared at him, confused. ‘I’m sorry, Gilbert, but I don’t think I know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Ahh. Have I let the cat out of the bag? You’re not here to ask me about the Papal visit?’

  ‘No indeed, although it’s nice to have advance warning. When is it?’

  ‘In October. He’s addressing a Special Assembly of the Church of Scotland.’

  The Chief Constable clapped a hand to his forehead. ‘Oh no. He isn’t, is he? The policing of that will be a nightmare. Couldn’t you talk him out of it?’

  ‘I tried, Jimmy, believe me, but I understand that the idea was suggested by the Leader of Her Majesty’s Opposition during a recent audience.’

  ‘Then I hope that the irresponsible fool loses the next election. We’d better waste no time on this. I’ll arrange for Jim Elder, my ACC Ops, to meet your people, and the Church of Scotland, as soon as possible.’

  Cardinal White nodded, ushering his guest towards two red armchairs on either side of a gas-fuelled open fire. ‘If that wasn’t it, then what is your delicate matter, may I ask?’

  ‘It’s something that Bob Skinner asked me to raise with you,’ said Proud.

  The Cardinal’s eyebrows rose. ‘The famous Mr Skinner. What have we done to attract his attention
? How is he, incidentally? Recovered from that incident, I trust?’

  ‘More or less, yes. He’s back in harness. The thing is, our CID people are investigating a murder. It happened in a car showroom in Seafield last Wednesday. During the course of our enquiries, we discovered that one of your clergy, Father Dominic Ahern, had been in the area at the time.

  ‘When we asked Father Ahern if he had seen anything near the showroom, he said that he had. We then ran into an area of difficulty. Father Ahern felt unable to tell us any more.’

  ‘Ahh,’ said the Cardinal, hunching his shoulders beneath his dark robe, ‘I think I understand. A matter of confessional sanctity?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In which you realise I cannot intercede?’

  ‘Of course not, Gilbert. I must tell you at once that Father Ahern has behaved with absolute propriety in this matter. But in the light of the limited responses which he felt able to make to our questions, I have a couple of things to ask you.’

  Cardinal White nodded. ‘Go on. I’ll see what answers I can give you.’

  ‘The first is easy. Before Father Ahern became parish priest at St Magdalena’s, what was his posting?’

  ‘That’s easy indeed. He was priest of St Teresa’s, one of our smaller charges, in Morningside.’

  ‘Right. Now can I ask you, does each of your churches keep a record of its parishioners?’

  The Cardinal laughed. ‘Too right we do. And the archdiocese keeps an overall record, centrally.’

  ‘Then I’ll come to the point. Gilbert, we have deduced, not from anything Father Ahern told us, but from what he didn’t, that the man we want for that murder is likely to be a Catholic.

  ‘Purely as a speculative exercise, you understand, and on the basis that nothing you let us see would be required as a production in evidence, would you be prepared to let us look at the list of male parishioners of St Teresa’s?’

  Cardinal White looked at him in surprise, his small eyes widening in his puffy face. ‘St Teresa’s? Not St Magdalena’s?’