16 - Dead And Buried

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘When do you go?’ she asked, as he rose to change the CD.

  ‘As soon as we’ve caught this idiot who’s stalking Alex Skinner.’

  ‘Any leads on that?’

  ‘Nothing solid. We’re making very discreet enquiries in her workplace, but nothing’s come from them yet.’

  ‘Could it be linked to the thing her dad was involved in last week?’

  ‘A survivor out for revenge? Or even a fringe sympathiser? Those are the unspoken fears, but I don’t believe so.’ He pushed the play button on his remote and Van Morrison’s Veedon Fleece eased its way gently into the room.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Maggie, as he settled down beside her. ‘By the way,’ she said, ‘you do realise that I’m only marrying you to get access to your music collection?’

  He laughed. ‘My library is yours. I haven’t leaped to any conclusions about the boy, and I won’t. My brief is simple: catch him. I’m most likely to do that if I keep a completely open mind.’

  ‘What happens when you do?’

  ‘I hand him over to DCS McGuire and Detective Superintendent McIlhenney: orders from on high.’

  ‘God help him.’

  ‘No, God will be helping him by keeping him away from their boss.’

  ‘The very thought of that confrontation makes me shiver. Do you know where he is, by the way? I tried to get hold of ACC Haggerty today and I was told that he was at a committee standing in for the DCC.’

  ‘I haven’t a Scooby, but the grapevine told me that he and Dottie Shannon were seen at the airport this morning checking in for a London flight.’

  ‘Shannon?’

  ‘The new head of Special Branch.’

  ‘God, I never knew,’ she gasped. ‘See? I’m becoming detached from the job already.’

  ‘It’s all happened very . . .’ He was interrupted in mid-sentence by the ringing of the telephone. With a frown and a muttered curse, he paused Van Morrison and picked it up. ‘Steele.’

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, boss. It’s Tarvil here.’

  Stevie sighed: he knew that DC Singh was not one to call him off duty without thinking hard about it. ‘Tell me,’ he said.

  ‘Alex has had another call.’

  ‘Did we get a fix on it?’

  ‘A callbox in George Street. He stayed well away from the house this time, and he’s smart enough not to hang around either. We had a car in St Andrews Square when we pinned it down, but he was gone by the time it got along there.’

  ‘Was anything said?’

  ‘Yes. Something different this time.’

  ‘Bring me down a tape.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘I don’t mean tomorrow.’

  ‘It’d be quicker if I send it to you as an email attachment.’

  ‘True. Do it.’ He ended the call. Walked across to the bay window and switched on his computer, then logged on to the Internet. Singh’s message arrived in his mailbox inside a minute.

  ‘What is it?’ Maggie asked, as he downloaded the attachment.

  ‘Alex’s latest breather call hot off the line.’

  ‘Let’s hear it.’

  He grinned over his shoulder. ‘Yes, ma’am.’ He clicked on the play icon, and adjusted the volume upwards. In an instant, the room was filled by the sound of a ringing telephone. There was a faint click as it was answered.

  ‘This is Alex.’

  Silence.

  ‘Ah, it’s you again. Tell me, for I want to know this after last night, are you just an ordinary pervert or are you a peeping Tom as well? Were you looking through my window last night?’

  Silence.

  ‘You know, I really am looking forward to meeting you, and I will. I meant it, you know: my dad’s on to you. If you value your nuts, you’ll pack this in.’

  Silence.

  ‘Okay, I think I’m going to hang up now. I was working just now, and my time’s valuable. If you want to say anything to me, you’ve got ten seconds to do it.’

  Silence. Then, the sound of a breath, and, hoarsely, ‘You hurt me, Alex, you bitch.’

  There was a click, followed by the dial tone, and the sound of Alex Skinner’s breathing.

  Thirty-five

  Sir James Proud was a man of routine: he arrived at his office at quarter to nine every morning, give or take a minute, to allow his secretary, who started fifteen minutes earlier, to filter his mail and lay it on his desk. Normally the pile was not large, as Gerry was skilled in weeding out material which he need not see and directing it to the appropriate officers.

  As he eased himself into his comfortable swivel chair, he noted that the filtering process had gone very well that morning: fewer than a dozen letters had survived. He decided to check the newspapers first and was reaching for his copy of the Scotsman when his eye was caught by the heading on the document on top of the correspondence stack: ‘Scottish Secondary Teachers’ Association.’ He picked it up and read.

  Dear Sir James

  Subsequent to your recent telephone communication I instructed that a check be made of our records for material relating to Mr Claude Bothwell. I am pleased to say that my assistant was able to find material relating to his membership. As I suspected he was our representative within Edinburgh Academy for most of his time on the staff there. He appears to have been singularly unsuccessful as a recruiter, since our membership within the school fell during his incumbency from five to two. He first joined the SSTA as a newly qualified teacher on the staff of Wishaw High School, where he remained for three years before taking up a post at Jordanhill School in Glasgow. He taught there for a further four years. There was then a twelve-month lapse in his membership before he joined the staff of Edinburgh Academy. He has never resigned formally from the Association, although his subscriptions ceased forty-one years ago. I attach photocopies of the relevant material.

  I hope this information is helpful to you.

  Yours sincerely,

  J.B. Cotter (Miss)

  General Secretary

  He glanced at the attachment, a single sheet of paper, which had been amended in manuscript in several places so that all three of Bothwell’s schools and three postal addresses showed, although two had been crossed out. ‘Good for you, Miss Cotter,’ he whispered. ‘Not that it takes us any further, but at least you tried.’ He laid the letter down and picked up his newspaper.

  He was scanning the business pages when the intercom sounded. ‘Can you see DS McGurk, sir?’ asked Gerry Crossley.

  He glanced up at the wall clock: it showed two minutes past nine. ‘Yes, of course. I’m expecting Mr Haggerty at nine fifteen, but I’m sure we’ll be finished by then.’

  McGurk stepped through the door at the end of the room a few seconds later. As always he was immaculately dressed, in a business suit, and his black shoes gleamed. He was carrying a slim folder in his hand. ‘Morning, Jack,’ the chief greeted him. ‘Have you had any contact from the DCC since he went south?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, sir, I had a phone call five minutes ago.’

  ‘From London?’

  ‘From a car, by the sound of it: he was checking on what was happening, that was all, passing the time, I think. I told him about the Bothwell investigation. It seemed to amuse him.’

  ‘It would. He thinks I’m playing detectives.’

  The towering sergeant grinned. ‘If you are, you’re pretty good at it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I had an interesting visit to New Register House yesterday afternoon. We’re not looking for your lady’s mother any more, at least not primarily. This is a criminal investigation.’

  ‘What’s the crime?’

  ‘At the very least, bigamy: two counts thereof.’ He laid his folder on Proud’s desk. ‘It’s all in there. The lady you remember, Montserrat Rivera What’s-her-name, was, in fact, his third wife, but there’s no record of either of the first two marriages ending in either death or divorce.’

  ‘Bloody hell! Bob suspecte
d as much.’

  McGurk fought to keep his eyebrows from rising: he had never heard the chief constable swear before. ‘What do you want me to do now, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘As I see it you’ve got two choices. You can either put the lid back on this thing . . . it’s forty years down the road, after all . . . and tell Mrs Friend that you can’t find her mother, which wouldn’t be a lie, or you can order me to trace these other women as well.’

  ‘Would that be easy?’

  ‘No. The truth is, the system loses track of hundreds of people every year; they could be anywhere . . . or nowhere. Remember, sir, we’re talking about elderly people here.’

  ‘What would our absent friend the DCC do, do you think?’

  The two men looked at each other for a few seconds, then smiles broke out on both their faces. ‘Need you ask, sir?’ said McGurk.

  ‘Let’s call it a rhetorical question.’

  Proud sat behind his desk and stared out of the window as he considered the options that McGurk had set out for him. As he did so it came to him that there was a third, crazy option. He thought of his career as it had been and as it was. Nobody would argue that it had not been distinguished: it had won him his knighthood and the Queen’s Police Medal, the honour which he valued privately above all. Yet it rankled with him that he had achieved these things without ever deviating from the conventional, without ever kicking over the traces and taking a chance. Now it was almost at an end; he would be a long time retired . . . he hoped . . . and sure as hell he would be a long time dead.

  ‘You know, Jack,’ he said, ‘I need to get out more. Thank you very much for all the work you’ve done in getting us this far, but my diary’s clear for the next few days, and Mr Haggerty’s around to deal with any emergencies, so I think I’m going to handle this stage of the investigation myself.’

  The sergeant stared at him, and blinked. ‘You mean you’re going to pass it to the chief constable of Strathclyde, sir?’

  ‘I’ll tell him when I deem it appropriate,’ Proud replied firmly. ‘I mean what I say, literally: I’m a serving police officer, with a warrant card, and it appears that a crime has been committed. It’s my sworn duty to look into it.’ He stared up at McGurk. ‘I know, son,’ he said. ‘You’re thinking that I’ve gone soft in the head, and maybe I have, but there’s a bit of a mystery here, and damn me, I’m going to solve it.’

  Thirty-six

  Skinner was smiling as Amanda Dennis drove along the Hogsback, heading for Churt from a different direction than the day before because of a warning on BBC Radio of a crash further down the A3.

  ‘What’s tickling you?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s nothing really, just something daft that’s going on in Edinburgh. Jimmy Proud’s trying to carve himself a career as an investigator before it’s too late. Trouble is, it looks as if he’s bitten off more than he can chew. Jimmy’s been a desk pilot for all his career as a senior officer. Luckily this is a private matter, and he’s got big Jack McGurk to help him, so he won’t be embarrassed in front of the rest of the force.’

  ‘I hope he isn’t. I like your chief constable: he’s a very nice man.’

  ‘He’s also a sucker for a sob story, which is how he’s got into this thing in the first place.’

  ‘How about your daughter’s problem?’

  The smile left Skinner’s face. ‘I spoke to Neil about that this morning: he told me they’ve got a lead. There was another call last night apparently, and this time the man said something. They’re hoping that it’ll trigger something in Alex’s head that’ll take them to him.’

  ‘Let’s hope so. I hate that sort of thing: it’s so cowardly.’

  ‘As the gentleman will find out when we trace him and my two Rottweilers have him in their teeth.’

  ‘Speaking of same, have you decided how you’re going to handle Rudy Sewell?’

  ‘I thought you might like to sit in on this one.’

  Dennis shook her head firmly. ‘I don’t want to see that man again, ever. He was responsible for the death of one of my team, remember.’

  ‘More than that, Amanda.’ She glanced at him. ‘It’s okay,’ he said, too quietly for Shannon to overhear in the back seat. ‘I know about you and Sean, but nobody else does.’

  ‘Bob,’ she murmured. ‘If that man walks away from this . . .’

  ‘That will have nothing to do with me.’

  ‘But don’t you have the power to offer amnesty in return for co-operation?’

  ‘Yes, but I’m not giving guarantees. Sewell’s very dangerous. The DG’s not going to turn him loose.’

  ‘And Hassett?’

  ‘I’ll be in a better position to take a view on that when I’ve spoken to Sewell. At the moment my view is Miles is a follower, not a leader. His story is that he was approached by Sewell; I want Sewell to confirm that, and I want him to tell me why Hassett was chosen. Then there’s the matter of Bassam. If he didn’t belong to Six, whose was he and how did Sewell come to know of his track record, and have his cover address?’

  ‘He won’t talk to you.’

  ‘They all talk to me in the end.’

  ‘This isn’t Edinburgh, Bob, and he isn’t an ordinary criminal.’

  ‘Sure he is. He may be Oxbridge educated and he may be a member of the inner circle down here, but he’s guilty of treason, conspiracy to murder, and incitement to murder in the case of Sean Green. He’s a criminal, Amanda: there are no modifying adjectives that can be used with that word. They’re all the same.’

  ‘He’s tough and he’s trained. How are you going to break him? Are you changing your mind about physical persuasion?’

  Skinner shook his head. ‘It’s a matter of giving him a reason to talk to me. It needn’t be fear; in fact it rarely is. Most often it’s guilt: people can’t carry its weight. But in quite a few cases, it’s arrogance. I’ve got Rudy marked down as a very self-satisfied person. It was the first thing that struck me about him when he came up to Edinburgh at the start of this business. If he was made of marzipan, he’d eat himself. One of the reasons why Sir Evelyn asked me to do this job is because I’m just another plod from the sticks, or at least that’s what Sewell thinks. He’ll be offended when he walks into the interview room and sees Dottie and me there. It’ll throw him off balance. I can work on that: I’ll start to demean him, attack his intellect, attack his motivation. It might take a while, but sooner or later, and I don’t care which . . . I can be patient when I have to be . . . he’ll be provoked. He’ll start to talk, and when he does, he’ll be bragging, he’ll be showing me how clever he really is.’

  ‘We’re going to find out pretty soon,’ said Dennis, as she turned off the road into the approach to the safe-house. They negotiated the barrier, cleared the encircling woodland and drove up the winding road. The morning was cold and wet: they rushed from the car park at the side round to the front door, and the shelter of its porch.

  Winston Chalmers was waiting for them inside. ‘Hello again,’ he said. ‘Not such a nice day, is it?’

  ‘No,’ Skinner replied. ‘And here was I thinking I might take Mr Sewell for a walk in the garden.’

  ‘I’m sure he’d enjoy that. When do you want to see him?’

  ‘Let me top up my caffeine level first, then we’ll get on with it.’

  ‘Do you want me to let him shower and shave, like we did yesterday with Hassett?’

  ‘No, I want this one as uncomfortable as possible. I want him stinking, and knowing it.’

  Chalmers laughed. ‘Oh, he stinks, that’s for sure. Where do you want to see him? In the upstairs drawing room like yesterday?’

  ‘No, that’s much too civilised. Do you have a really dark and depressing interrogation room?’

  ‘There’s one of those downstairs. I’ll go get him out of his bed-sit and put him in there for you.’ He turned and headed for the stair at the back of the hall, which led to the lower level of the house.
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br />   Skinner walked through to the kitchen, with the two women in his wake. He filled the kettle and switched it on, then started to search the cupboards for coffee. He had just found a jar of Alta Rica, and three mugs, when the door crashed open. A man whom Skinner had not seen before stood there, out of breath. ‘Sir,’ he gasped, ‘will you come with me, please?’

  The detective frowned, then followed him. He took the steps two at a time, turning, at their foot, to the right, into a corridor that seemed to run the full width of the house. A few feet away, Winston Chalmers and another man stood beside an open door. They looked at the floor as Skinner appeared, and he knew at once what had happened. He had noticed in the garden, the day before, that the windows were barred, so escape was nowhere in the reckoning. He walked past the minders and looked into the place where Rudy Sewell had been confined. A powerfully stale odour swept out to meet him, but he ignored it. The room was rectangular, not much bigger than some of the prison cells that he had seen during his career. There was a bed, against the wall on the right, and no other furniture. To his left, there was a toilet and a tiny basin. A hook had been set into the wall beside the cistern and it was there that Sewell had killed himself.

  ‘I’ll bet there’s no sheet on the bed, Winston, is there?’ said the detective.

  ‘No, sir, just a duvet.’ Chalmers stood beside him.

  ‘CCTV camera?’

  Chalmers pointed up and to his right, towards the ceiling. ‘Up there. It doesn’t look into the toilet area, though, so we couldn’t see what he was doing.’

  Sewell had shown the true ingenuity of the determined suicide. He had ripped the sleeves from his shirt, tied them together, and had used them to form a ligature, which he had fixed tightly round his neck, securing the other end to the hook. And then he had simply knelt down, let the makeshift rope take his weight and asphyxiated himself. It was a hanging, of a kind, unorthodox, but clearly very effective.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Chalmers, quietly.