06 - Skinner's Mission

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘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.

  ‘After that, I’ll be at Andy’s. Even although he doesn’t know it, he deserves some reassurance. And I need to be reminded of who I really am.’

  She picked up her coat, then turned and walked out of the cottage, leaving him standing in the silent room, staring at where she had been, with the heavy bag in his hands.

  At last he sat down on the sofa, and took out the diaries. They were still bound together, in order. Two pieces of blue marker paper protruded from the second volume, others from the eighth, from the twelfth, from the thirteenth and several from the last.

  He took out the second diary and opened it at the first page which his daughter had marked. It was Myra’s account of the day of her sixteenth birthday, April 21. The first cold shaft of desolation shot through him as he read of her seventeen-second coupling with Campbell Weston on the living-room carpet. Then he came into the narrative himself; suddenly he felt like a time-traveller, spectating at the events which the diary described. He saw his own face twist in pleasure at the flattening of Campbell, and his overt disappointment when Big Zed backed off. He saw the exultation in Myra’s eyes.

  He turned to the next marked page, and read, pictures coming clear into his head.

  April 28. At Home.

  Afternoon with Alice, getting ready for the big date. She’s taken it really well, all things considered.

  Met Bob outside the Rex at seven o’clock. He paid. It’s dark in there, especially in the back corner of the circle. It was a British film, with some guy named Roger Moore. I didn’t see much of it, though. I spent most of the time with my tongue down Robert’s throat and with his hand up my jumper. He caught on quick.

  We went straight back to his house afterwards. He said his mum and dad were away at some place called Chirnside, visiting friends, and wouldn’t be back till Sunday night. I asked if we could have a drink, gin or something, but he said no, we didn’t need it. It was the first time he’s ever refused me anything. Instead we went straight up to his bedroom.

  I don’t know why, but all of a sudden I felt a wee bit frightened. He left the curtains open and the light out, and he took my clothes off in the dark. He undid the bra-clip first time, too. I was shivering, lying there, watching him undress, until he lay down naked beside me, and touched me, between my legs. That’s when I knew that Alice had been wrong. It was like being with a man, not a boy like Campbell. His muscles were hard . . . but not as hard as . . . ! He just lay there for a while, kissing me and touching me, until I couldn’t wait any longer and I pulled him over and into me. Right away I found out what an orgasm means. It went on and on, then I could feel him starting too. He was going to pull out, but I held him there, with my legs wrapped around him, until he shot it all, hot and sticky, way up inside me.

  As he lay there on top of me, with the pair of us sweating, I told him that I loved him, and he said that he loved me. Guess what, diary? We both really mean it.

  We did it again, with a Durex this time, (he had them in his bedside cabinet) then we got dressed and he walked me home. He doesn’t know it, but I’m going back round there tomorrow morning!

  He smiled as he closed the book. In fact, Alice had been right, but from his and Myra’s first kiss at her party, he had been thinking about the moment. When it had come, he had simply known, instinctively, what to do.

  He picked up the next diary in Alex’s sequence and opened it at the next marked page.

  July 17. Estartit.

  I don’t know what made me do it. It must have been the heat, that’s all I can think of. It’s not that I’m not getting enough; Bob and I have been at it two or three times every day since we got here.

  But it happened, nonetheless. I had gone up from the pool to the apartment for a pee, since I don’t like the toilets down there. I did it, and I was coming out, when there he was, Dougie Fiddes, in his swimming trunks, going into his studio across the corridor. He gave me a smile, friendly, just like he does at the pool. I gave him a grin back, only something in me took over and it became a bit more than friendly.

  The urge just swept over me after that, and I couldn’t stop myself. I kept grinning at him as I walked across the hall. I pushed him back, into his apartment. The bed wasn’t made or anything but I didn’t care, I just shoved him down on it. I tore his trunks off, then my bikini bottom, and I jumped on him. I did all the work. It didn’t take long, but I came like a train and so did he. I’ll never forget his face beneath me, tongue out and bewildered, all at the same time. I’ll never forget the thrill, the scariness, the excitement.

  When I went back down to the pool and saw Bob, looking so fit and tanned, and happy and sexy, a funny thing happened. All of a sudden I wanted him, really wanted him, more than I think I ever have. I grabbed his hand and yanked him away from the pool, up to our apartment, up to bed.

  Dougie’s terrified now in case Bob finds out. I must admit I’m a bit scared myself, because I’m never sure what he might be like if he really got mad. But then I’m not going to tell him, am I. And Dougie certainly isn’t, that’s for sure. Still, it’s as well we’re off home tomorrow.

  Bob closed the diary and stared at the wall, gasping, his heart pounding. Dougie Fiddes: his best friend at the time. And his fiancée, for he and Myra had been engaged then. By her account, she had raped him, virtually. A week later, Dougie, his wife, and their baby daughter had died in the wreckage of their plunging plane.

  Fighting away images of Dougie Fiddes’ last thoughts, he picked up the next marked entry, and he read on. And on.

  An hour later, he closed the last diary and sat on the sofa, his face suffused with rage. Then with a roar like a bull he leapt to his feet and threw the volume against the wall, smashing it and sending pages flying everywhere.

  Somethi
ng unstoppable drove him through to Alex’s room. The black dress and underwear lay on the bed, the shoes and stockings on the floor. He gathered them all up and strode out to the back garden, grabbing a newspaper and a box of matches on the way.

  He tore the funnelled lid from the garden incinerator and threw the clothes inside, mingled the sheets of newspaper among them and lit a match. Replacing the lid, he stood back as the fire took hold, watching like an onlooker at a witch-burning as the relics of a woman he had never known were consumed and rose in a column of smoke and sparkling ashes, up and away into the darkness of the night.

  Gradually his rage began to abate, until he was able to walk back into the house; he was quiet, calm, and infinitely sad.

  He thought of phoning Alex, but realised what she had suffered over the weekend, and that she deserved to be left alone with Andy. He thought of phoning Sarah, but could think of nothing to say to her. He thought of phoning Pam, even of going to see her, but knew at once that it would not be fair of him to visit her in such a mood. Indeed, some instinct within him warned him that it could be dangerous for both of them.

  Instead, he turned off the light. In the darkness he sat, as a coldness swept over him. Staring at nothing, he thought of all of the day’s revelations, and he planned.

  72

  ‘How did you get on yesterday at Falkirk?’ he asked, as soon as she stepped into his office.

  Something in his voice made Pam look at him across the rosewood desk. It was barely noticeable, but there was an edge of weariness to it. His eyes gazed back at her with their usual warmth, but deep down in their blue pools, and in the creases around them, she saw traces of pain.

  ‘Very well, boss,’ she said, forcing herself to be brisk. ‘It couldn’t have gone better. I saw the senior partner of Watson Forbes, a Mr Jenks. He said that he was approached three years ago by a woman calling herself Jacqueline Huish. She said that she had come into some money, and wanted him to set up a company for her so that she could invest it in property. There and then she gave him two hundred and ten thousand in cash.’

  Skinner’s eyebrows rose. ‘She didn’t show him any ID?’ he asked.

  ‘No. Mr Jenks just accepted everything at face value, especially, it seems, the money. He admits that he made no attempt to check where it had come from. He went ahead as she instructed, bought a shelf company from a legal services firm and registered it, with Jacqueline Huish as sole director and secretary.

  ‘She came back, gave him a list of half a dozen properties she had looked at, and told him to buy any three of them, within budget. He did, completed the conveyancing, and gave her a fee note. She settled it from the money that was left, and took the balance away.

  ‘I did a check with the Edinburgh City Finance Department. The Council Tax on the three properties has always been paid in cash. The taxpayer for each is listed simply as Thirty-First Nominees, of the Rankeillor Street address.

  ‘Mr Jenks never saw Jacqueline Huish again . . . until I showed him a photograph of Carole Charles, that Alan Royston got for me from the Evening News. Then he nearly fell out of his chair.’

  Skinner beamed at her. ‘That’s excellent,’ he said. ‘The Fiscal said he’d agree to search warrants if I could satisfy him that Carole Charles and Jacqueline Huish were one and the same person. I was a bit concerned about that, but you’ve cracked it. Good work, Sarge.’

  She flushed, and smiled. ‘It was just luck.’

  ‘No. Having the nous to show him the photograph wasn’t luck. That was good police procedure. Right, I’ll speak to Davie Pettigrew and secure those search warrants. You call McIlhenney and have him here at two thirty. Don’t tell him what it’s about and tell him to say nothing to anyone else.’

  She looked at him, puzzled. ‘McIlhenney?’

  ‘Of course. Deputy Chief Constables don’t go kicking doors in as a rule, and I wouldn’t ask you to do it.’

  ‘Glad about that!’ She stood up, but paused, and her grin left her. ‘How did you get on last night? Or shouldn’t I ask?’

  He motioned her back to her seat and leaned across the desk. ‘Pam, you’re a friend as well as a PA,’ he said quietly, looking deep into her eyes. ‘You have a perfect right to ask, not just personally, but professionally too. In that respect, I can tell you that Skinner’s Mission is accomplished. I know who tried to kill me, and why.

  ‘Very soon I’ll settle that account. But first, there are some other ducks that have to be got into a row.’

  He paused. ‘Personally, my life is taking a new turning. I’ll explain it all to you once the smoke clears. All I’ll tell you now is that last night we had an exorcism at the haunted house.’

  Her frown deepened, so dramatically that he laughed. ‘That’s whetted your appetite, I can see. I want you to do something for me now that’ll puzzle you even more. I want you to go to personnel and pull a complete service record file for me.’

  ‘Right away. Whose?’

  His smile vanished. ‘Robert Morgan Skinner. Deputy Chief Constable.’

  73

  McIlhenney thumped on the door of number 31a Rankeillor Street with the side of his clenched fist.

  ‘Let’s count to thirty-one, for luck,’ said Skinner. The three stood on the doorstep of the basement flat and waited, until finally, the DCC nodded.

  McIlhenney picked up the big black battering ram by both handles and heaved it, as smoothly as he could. With hardly any splintering of wood, the door gave and swung open violently.

  ‘I didn’t hit it that hard,’ said the Sergeant, puzzled. He looked at the doorjamb and at the keeper of the five lever lock, and turned to the DCC. ‘Sir, I’d say that someone’s been in before us, with a crowbar. The door was just held on the Yale, and barely at that. It’s a wonder it didn’t open when I knocked on it.’

  Frowning, Skinner led the way into a dark hallway. He ran his hand along the wall until he found a light switch and flicked it on.

  Three doors led off the hall, all of them closed. He opened each in turn. ‘Bathroom. Pam, you check in there. Living room, kitchen off. Neil, you take that. This must be the bedroom. I’ll look in here.

  ‘Remember, don’t touch anything for now. We’re looking for ledgers, files, correspondence. If someone’s beaten us to it they won’t be here, but you never know what else we might find.’

  The bedroom, like the rest of the flat, as far as he had seen in his snap look round, was furnished for functionality rather than comfort. A continental quilt, with a cheap cover and white cotton pillowslips lay on the double divan bed. He bent over the pillows and looked closely, a strange smile on his face.

  The wardrobe, chest of drawers and dressing table were made of light pine, matching the headboard. A number of cosmetic items and a tall tube of hair spray lay on the dressing table, on which a thick film of dust had gathered. There were three drawers in the chest. He opened them one by one. The first was half-filled with female underwear. Skinner took out a pair of panties and held them up. He shuddered as he was reminded of the garment which Alex had worn the night before, and which he had consigned to the flames.

  He closed the drawer quickly, and opened the next, revealing a few tops and sweaters, of varying weights. The bottom drawer was empty, save for a large box of condoms. He picked it up. ‘Twenty-four at a time,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Randy bugger, eh.’ He looked in the box. It was full ‘. . . Or did she buy them?’

  Skinner opened the wardrobe. Inside he saw, hanging neatly to the left of the rail, half a dozen dresses, three pairs of slacks, and a tracksuit. The right side of the wardrobe was empty.

  He sensed Pam behind him before she spoke. ‘Nothing in the bathroom, boss,’ she said. ‘Nothing at all. It’s been scrubbed clean.’

  ‘So has this, in a way. I’d guess that there were men’s clothes here, recently, but not any more. One drawer’s empty, and half the wardrobe. And look here.’ He picked up one of the pillows. ‘The sheet’s been stripped from the bed, and these pillow-sl
ips; there isn’t a single hair on them.

  ‘The bastard’s been thorough,’ he said with feeling.

  ‘Ahh, but . . .’ Masters reached down and felt the coverlet of the quilt, then, slowly and carefully, turned it over. ‘Not that thorough,’ she said. ‘Nobody, but nobody can get all the hairs off a nylon duvet cover.’

  She smiled up at Skinner, brightly. ‘That’s why I use cotton.

  ‘Look, here. And here. And here. And here.’

  Skinner went to the door. ‘Neil,’ he called. ‘Through here, with those plastic envelopes for forensic samples.’

  He turned back towards his assistant, as McIlhenney’s heavy tread sounded in the hallway. ‘Pam, call in for a car to pick you up and get out to the lab as quick as you can, with these strands of hair for matching and checking. The report’s for my eyes only, like before.

  ‘Meanwhile, Neil and I will check the other two flats. Let’s just hope that our friend didn’t know about them.’

  74

  It took three blows of McIlhenney’s siege hammer before, finally, the door of 5c Westmoreland Cliff yielded and burst open.

  The Sergeant examined the wreckage of the two locks. ‘No-one’s been in this one before us, sir,’ he said. ‘Not without a key anyway.’ He led the way inside. The flat was more or less the same size as the one in Rankeillor Street, but far more spectacular in its outlook. Every room, except for the bathroom, looked down upon Dean Village and along the narrow, tree-lined valley which the Water of Leith had carved through the centre of the city.

  There was no furniture in the house, nothing other than, in the living room, a cheap desk, an electric typewriter, a shabby chair, bought from a secondhand shop or from a downmarket warehouse, and a grey four-drawer filing cabinet, similar in shape to the blackened shells which had stood in the ruins of Jackie Charles’ showroom.