‘That’s right.’
The churchman stared into the fire, considering the question. ‘Purely speculative, you say?’
‘That’s right.’
‘There’d be no attempt to call Ahern as a witness, or interview him further?’
‘None. Plus, no-one but Bob Skinner would see the material you gave us, and it would be returned to you or destroyed as soon as it had been assessed.’
The churchman looked at the Chief Constable, long and slow. ‘With all those provisos, yes,’ he said at last.
‘How long will it take you to make it available?’
Cardinal White laughed again, merrily, as he pressed a button beside the fireplace. ‘About five minutes. This is very nearly the twenty-first century, Jimmy.’ The study door opened, and the young curate entered. ‘We keep all our records on computer these days. I take it that a three-and-a-half inch floppy will be okay.
‘You can just wipe it when you’re finished.’
69
Feeling uncomfortable in yesterday’s clothes, Skinner walked along to Frasers, at the West End of Princes Street, and bought a shirt, socks and underwear.
He changed into the fresh items in the small private room behind his office then buzzed through to Pamela. ‘A word please, Sergeant,’ he said. A few seconds later, the door opened. She was dressed, as the day before, in a fresh white blouse and in her close-fitting grey business suit. He smiled as she entered.
‘Hi Pam. Look, I’ve got something I’d like you to do for me as a priority, involving the lab, before we go to check on Thirty-First Whatever.’
‘Okay, boss,’ his assistant replied. ‘But first, the Chief called a minute ago, from his car. He said I should tell you that his visit was successful and that he has what you asked for.’
‘Good; that’s good.’ He sounded a shade distracted.
‘How was Stafford Street?’ she found herself asking, as she turned towards the door.
‘It was messy, very messy. You may have heard the term “hatchet job”, but believe me, you don’t want to see one. Every murder scene I’ve ever visited has been one too many, but some are worse than others.’
She grimaced. ‘This priority thing you want me to do? Has that got anything to do with it?’
The depth and sincerity of his sigh took her completely by surprise. ‘I hope not, Pam. I really do hope not.’
70
The General Register of Sasines conceals behind its grand and mysterious title the details of most of Scotland’s property ownership. To avoid the chancy business of parking in the back streets off London Road, Skinner and Masters arrived at its slightly drab entrance in the police car which had ferried Bob to and from his regular lunchtime visit to Jazz.
‘How was your son?’ Pamela asked, at last, as the car drew up outside the flat uninteresting bulk of Meadowbank House.
‘In fine loud form,’ Bob smiled. ‘His mother was absent though. Deliberately, I think. I’ll call her later.’ For an instant, he considered telling Pamela that Sarah knew where he had spent the previous night, but their driver’s presence made him think better of it.
They jogged up the steps, and were given clear directions by an attendant which led them to an office, modern but quite unlike that in which the Register of Companies was maintained. It was dull and dry, smelling of crisp paper and old, oiled leather bindings. Glass-fronted bookcases lined the walls of the big room, in which a man and three women worked at old grey metal desks.
One of the women rose and came towards them. ‘Yess?’ she asked in the tentative tone of one who hoped that whatever the enquiry was it would not be too taxing.
‘Good afternoon,’ said Pam, brightly. ‘I’m Sergeant Masters. And this is Deputy Chief Constable Skinner. I called this morning to make an appointment for two fifteen, with Miss Brittle.’
‘Ahh yes.’ The woman sounded relieved. ‘Mary,’ she called across the room. ‘Your two fifteen!’
Miss Brittle rose from behind the furthest desk and wound her way towards them. She was as grey as her desk, as grey as the carpet on the floor, as grey as the city on a wet November day. Her hair was drawn up in a tight bun, and she walked with a slight stoop, her spine curving beneath the embracing wool of her twin-set, which was, of course, grey. She looked at least sixty. In fact, Skinner thought to himself, she looked as if she had been sixty for ever.
‘You’re the police lady,’ she said in a clear, shrill tone.
‘Yes, and this is my boss, DCC Skinner.’
Mary Brittle gazed up at him, severely. ‘What’s this about then? We’re not used to police traipsing in here, asking for information. You didn’t need to call personally, you know.’
‘I know,’ said Skinner, doing his best to charm the dragon, ‘but we thought that it would be easier for you if we did. There is a degree of urgency, as well.’
Her glower softened, almost as if it were starting out on the long journey towards becoming a smile. ‘Oh well,’ she said. ‘What is it you want?’
‘We need to locate all properties owned by a company, registered in Scotland, called Thirty-First Nominees Limited, ’ said Pamela. ‘There’s nothing in the company’s returns to indicate where they are, and we believe that its sole director may have died.’
‘Won’t the death have been registered?’ asked Miss Brittle.
‘We’ve checked. This person’s birth isn’t even registered. The name in Companies House is an alias.’
‘Hmm. Very mysterious. Hold on then, and I’ll check. Thirty-First Nominees Limited, you said.’ Pamela nodded.
‘It’ll take a wee while. There’s a display on downstairs: why don’t you wander round that and come back in fifteen minutes or so.’
Leaving Pamela to tour the exhibition of old Scottish Feudal charters, Skinner stepped out of the building, walked up the few steps which led up to London Road, and took out his mobile phone. He dialled in his Edinburgh home number: Sarah’s number now, he reminded himself. It was Tracey, the nanny, who answered. ‘Hello, Mr Skinner. Yes, she just came in.’
‘Hello, Bob.’ His wife’s tone was so frosty that it chilled him to the bone. ‘I suppose I should sing, “Who Were You With Last Night?”, shouldn’t I?’
He had been expecting her to say something, but still a great flame of anger swept through him, obliterating the chill and stopping just short of lighting his notoriously short fuse. ‘I got snowed in,’ he said curtly.
‘If you say so. I got snowed in too, with our son.’
He sighed. ‘Listen, Sarah, I think we should talk to each other, about the situation, about where we’re headed. Can I visit you tonight? I’ll bring supper with me.’
‘No thank you.’
‘You come out to Gullane then. Leave Jazz with Tracey.’
‘Oh no!’ Her voice was vehement, her upstate New York accent as pronounced as it was when first they had met. ‘I’m not coming back to the haunted house! Listen, I’ll decide when we meet, and where. If we meet, that is.
‘As for tonight, I’m sure you’ll find that your evening’s occupied.’ Abruptly, she hung up.
He felt another blaze of anger. He pressed the ‘Redial’ button, but caught himself and stopped the call. Instead, he took three deep breaths, to calm himself, then called his office.
‘Ruthie,’ he said, calmed at once by the sound of his secretary’s friendly voice. ‘It’s me. Is the Chief back from his lunch yet?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Okay, when he comes in, tell him that I’ve reviewed the material he secured for me, taken what I need from it, and wiped it as agreed. Tell him too that if the ball spins the way it might, I may need a very private meeting with him tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Yes, sir.’ She paused. ‘Mr Skinner, don’t mind me asking, but are you all right? It’s just that I’ve never heard you sounding so stressed out.’
‘I guess that’s because I never have been.’ He chuckled, and that was a relief in itself. ‘But don’t you wor
ry about me. Stress can be a stimulant, they say.
‘D’you have anything else for me?’
‘Yes, one thing. Alex phoned. She said she wants to see you tonight, at Gullane. She said to expect her at eight thirty.’
He laughed again. ‘That sounds like an order, not a request. I’ll look forward to it.’ He replaced the phone in his pocket, stepped back into the building, reclaimed his assistant from the exhibition, and headed back to the formidable Miss Brittle.
Pam climbed the stairs a couple of paces ahead of him, her hips rippling in her tight skirt as she took the steps. For some reason Bob thought again of Sarah and the chill in her voice, and suddenly felt ashamed of his angry reaction.
Miss Brittle was waiting for them as they stepped back into the big room. This time she showed them to a desk and invited them to sit.
‘That wasn’t too difficult at all,’ she said, with a slight air of smugness. ‘Thirty-First Nominees owns three tenemental properties, all in Edinburgh. Here are the addresses.’ She pushed a handwritten note across the desk. ‘31a Rankeillor Street, 5c Westmoreland Cliff, and 59 Stalbridge Colonies.
‘Titles to all three properties were registered within a six-week period, three years ago. None of them are encumbered.’ Miss Brittle’s smile surfaced at last, weak and watery, as she looked across at Masters. ‘That means that none of them are mortgaged, dear.’
Skinner threw a quick sideways glance at his assistant. Only a sudden clenching of the muscles at the base of her jaw as she forced a smile in return betrayed any reaction to Miss Brittle’s patronising.
‘Indeed,’ she said. ‘Do your records show who acted for the company in the acquisitions?’
The grey woman nodded. ‘Watson Forbes, Solicitors, of Falkirk; a small firm. I was surprised. I don’t usually see their name involved with corporate work.’
‘Thank you very much, Miss Brittle,’ said Skinner, rising from the desk. ‘You’ve given us what we were after. We’re very grateful.’
‘We are here to serve,’ said the elderly lady, fixing him with a sudden gaze so perceptive that it almost made him start. ‘I can’t imagine what this is about. But it must be very important, to demand the personal attention of a Deputy Chief Constable.’
They walked side by side from the building, in silence, and down the steps to their waiting car. As Skinner opened the back door for his assistant, a slow smile spread over his face. ‘A right cunning old bird that was,’ he muttered.
He stopped, his hand on the roof of the car. ‘Pam, drop me off at Fettes, then head on out to Falkirk and find this Watson Forbes firm. See what they can tell you about their mysterious client. Meantime I’ll speak to my pal the Fiscal and get entry warrants for these three properties. I’m sure I can find grounds under the Companies Acts.
‘Once I’ve taken care of that, I’ll be going out to Gullane. I’ve been bidden to meet with my daughter, and I can only hazard several guesses as to what it might be about.’
71
He was waiting for her, watching from behind the curtains of his darkened bedroom, as she drove up the Green, and as her headlights swung off the road and turned towards the cottage. She was five minutes early.
He had opened the front door, beneath its welcoming light, before she had even switched off the engine. He looked on as she pulled her long coat tight around her, and climbed out of the car, more awkwardly than usual. He watched from the doorway, as she took a holdall from the boot. He stood back in surprise as she walked up the path towards him, but without looking at him, then swept past him, into the hall.
He had no time to register details, only his own surprise. He followed her into the living room.
Alex dropped the bag in the centre of the floor, threw off her coat in a single sweeping motion and turned towards him. He gasped in surprise and stood frozen in the doorway.
‘Hello, Bob,’ she said, in an accent that was not her own. She was wearing the black dress, the tight thrusting bra, the high heels. Her hair was teased, and her make-up was applied perfectly. She stood and faced him, the dress riding up her right thigh as she bent her knee, slowly, rubbing her foot against the back of her left calf.
And then she was Alex again.
‘You wanted me to get to know my mother, Pops. I did. Both sides of her.
‘I read the diaries. In there I found my mum, and your wife. But I found someone else too: a woman you didn’t know existed. The woman who wore this dress, these shoes . . .’ She pulled up the dress quickly, revealing the catch of the suspenders and the top of the stocking, ‘. . . this underwear.
‘You put all these things in the trunk, Pops, but you didn’t know what they were for. I guess you remember her wearing them, but you never for a second understood why she did.’
She walked across to the doorway and hugged him, briefly, as he stood there, bewildered. ‘My mum loved you, Pops. And she loved me, and she loved her job. All that was very clear, all the way through. But there was another side to her that only her diaries knew about. Only the diaries and the men.
‘There was another person inside her: a bad, wanton person, one that she kept hidden from you all your life together. She suppressed her for as long as she could, but gradually her urges took a stronger and stronger hold of her. If she were here today, I think she’d say that she was compelled to do these things, and that she couldn’t stop herself. But there was more than that to it; there was the danger too. She seemed to love that.’
She led him into the living room, and tugged his arm until he sat on the couch beside her. His face was dark, disturbed.
‘Myra . . . I can’t call that part of her Mum . . .’ said Alex, ‘realised from the start that she had a power over men. She even thought she could use it to snare you, when you were both sixteen, only she fell in love with you. You were strong; without knowing it you kept her devilment in check for years. But Myra’s wanton side was strong too, and it couldn’t be suppressed for ever.’ She paused.
‘She had affairs, Pops.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Not long-term, not serious - until the end - but quick, dangerous liaisons. Gradually, the more dangerous they were the better they became. The other Myra spent her life searching for the ultimate sexual excitement, and risk had to be associated. She was addicted to it. It’s all there, Pops, in the diaries. I’m sure that simply keeping them, under your nose, with the possibility that you might get curious and pick one up, was the biggest risk of all. Yet she did it. She knew you too, obviously, and was confident that you would respect the only privacy she asked of you.’
Alex looked down at her clothes. ‘This dress I’m wearing, these clothes, were a weapon. Pops, some nights while you were working late and someone was babysit-ting for me, she’d get dressed up in them and go to a hotel in town, one of the good ones in the city centre, looking for a man on his own. For her, it was easy.
‘My University friends and I, we laugh about it. We call it sharking. Pops, in terms of sharking, Myra was a Great White.’ She paused. ‘After a while, just to add to the thrill, and the risk, she got round to taking money. Fifty pounds, sixty, a hundred pounds once.’
Bob sprang to his feet. ‘No!’ he exploded. ‘Fantasies, girl, that’s all these diaries are. The fantasies of a woman with . . . with . . . an imaginary friend, to act out her bad thoughts.’
Alex stood up too. She dropped her head slightly and looked at him from beneath hooded eyebrows. ‘Oh no,’ she said quietly, a smoky edge to her voice. ‘I wore these clothes, Pops. I went out in them. I became Myra.
‘And I was overwhelmed by what I could do, by the power I had, by the danger I could put myself in, and by the sheer depth of the thrill it made me feel.
‘I went out to a hotel in Glasgow, Pops. I met a man, an American. I pulled him, just like that. He’d have given me three hundred quid, for me to take this outfit off. I took myself, almost literally, to the bedroom door. I said okay, sent him up ahead of me in the lift, then I jumped into a taxi and I got the
hell out of there.
‘I was terrified, Pops.’ Tears welled up in her big blue eyes and ran down her cheeks, through her make-up, destroying her mascara. ‘Not by the man or anything about him, but by me, and what I could do.’
She pointed to the bag on the floor. ‘The adventures in those diaries are not fantasies, believe me. They may have begun that way, but Myra acted them out, every one of them.’ She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
‘Now I have to get out of these clothes. Because they scare the life out of me.’ She strode from him, quickly, through to her bedroom. When she reappeared in five minutes, she was Alex again, in sweatshirt, jeans, and flat shoes, her eyes clear, her face scrubbed clean, her hair bouncing in its usual shape.
‘I’ve left them through there, Pops. I don’t want them. When you’ve read what’s in those diaries, I think you’ll want to burn them.’
She stepped up to him and hugged him, as she had when she was small.
‘When I had finished,’ she said, quietly, ‘I didn’t know what to do. Should I keep them to myself, should I leave you with your memories of your Myra? Or should I show you what was in them, and risk breaking your heart?
‘I called Sarah this morning, to ask her advice. She chopped me off. She said she was the last person I should talk to, and hung up the phone, more or less. I couldn’t talk to Andy; that wouldn’t have been right, telling him and not you, and anyway, I’m not ready to come clean with him about all of my weekend. Maybe I never will be.
‘So at last, Pops, I decided you had to know. Especially because of the end, and what’s there.’
She picked up the bag and put it into his hands, heavy with the weight of the fourteen volumes, heavy with what they contained. ‘Don’t read them all,’ she said. ‘That’d be too much, even for you. No; especially for you. I’ve marked the pages that I think you have to see. They’re all in here, in order.
‘I’m going to leave you to it. You’ve got the strength to read them alone. If you want to speak to me when you’re finished, I’ll be at Fairyhouse Avenue for a while. I feel, at least part of me feels, defiled. I need to encounter purity. So I’m going to visit my brother. And to talk to Sarah while I’m at it, whether she or you like it or not.
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