Private Investigations

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘Who decides what’s serious?’

  She grinned. ‘That is the million-dollar question.’

  Then she frowned, just as Provan arrived with the paper suits. ‘I suppose this is a crime, yes?’

  ‘From what I’ve heard and seen, Jock Hodgson was a skilled engineer, but I doubt that he tied himself up.’

  We suited up, and I took them inside. We were still in the kitchen when Provan, for all his experience, started to retch. I paused until he had his heaving stomach under control, then led them to the doorway of the living room, through the fat, buzzing flies.

  ‘Are you sure this is Mr Hodgson?’ Lottie asked, a perfectly decent question.

  ‘I’m open to correction,’ I admitted, ‘but I don’t see that it can be anyone else.’

  ‘How long do you think he’s been dead?’

  ‘Weeks, I’m guessing.’ I went back into the hall and opened a glazed front door. A pile of mail lay beneath the flap in the storm doors. ‘The earliest date on those letters should give you a clue, but let’s leave it to the CSIs to sort them out.’

  ‘Did ye see any signs of forced entry?’ Provan asked.

  ‘No,’ I told him. ‘There are none.’

  ‘How did you get in?’ Mario McGuire’s muffled voice came from behind us, announcing his arrival. I turned; he too was wearing a sterile suit, hat and face mask.

  ‘I found a back door key in the garage.’

  ‘It wasn’t unlocked?’ He was surprised, and I knew why.

  ‘No, and neither was the front door. Which means that whoever killed the guy actually locked up when they left. They didn’t want him to be found in a hurry.’

  ‘Eh?’ Mann exclaimed. ‘If that’s right, wasn’t it a bit risky to leave him here?’

  ‘Probably less risky than moving him and chancing being seen,’ I suggested. ‘This house is a cul-de-sac at the end of a cul-de-sac. Hodgson’s neighbours called him the Hermit. The one I spoke to didn’t even know his name, and I’ll bet she doesn’t miss much.’

  ‘They’ll know his name from now on,’ Mario McGuire observed. ‘It’ll be all over the press tomorrow.’

  ‘If he’s a hermit, sir,’ Provan countered, ‘how are we going tae get a formal ID that fast?’

  ‘That won’t bother our communications department,’ the big DCC chuckled. ‘They make their own rules these days.’ He looked at me, giving me a wordless signal that we should leave.

  I followed him into the garden happily, having seen enough of Jock Hodgson for a while. He went straight to the point as he ripped off his paper mask and cap, posing the question that I’d been turning over in my own mind.

  ‘Could this be related to the job you’re working on?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ I admitted. ‘No, let me rephrase that. I have no evidence of that. I didn’t come here expecting to find Hodgson dead, or even missing. I marked him down as a bloody nuisance of a man who was lazy about checking his voicemail, or who only returned calls from people he knew.’

  Mann and Provan had followed us outside, and heard my reply. ‘What do you know about him, sir?’ the DI asked.

  ‘Not a hell of a lot. That’s what I came here to find out. He was an ex-naval engineer, and in retirement he worked part-time on my client’s stolen motor cruiser, and, I’m told, on a variety of other jobs. I know nothing about any of them. I know nothing about the man, period. Did he piss off one of his other clients? Was he in debt to the wrong people? Was he shagging somebody else’s wife? You’re going to have to do it the hard way, Lottie, and eliminate possibilities until you’ve only one solution left.’

  ‘That’s fine, Bob,’ Mario said, ‘but leaving aside by-the-book policing and proper procedure, what does your instinct tell you?’

  I looked at my old colleague, my old pupil, and I smiled. ‘It doesn’t tell me anything, but it suggests to me that somebody else wants to know what happened to Eden Higgins’ boat.’

  ‘If that’s the case,’ he pointed out, ‘by rights you should hand your inquiry over to us.’

  ‘As far as Hodgson’s death is concerned, you’re absolutely correct,’ I agreed.

  ‘But you’re not going to, are you?’

  ‘I will if you insist,’ I told him. ‘I have too much respect for you all to do otherwise. But if Hodgson’s death is linked to the theft, or it looks as if it might be, I’m offering to cooperate with Lottie and Dan, if they want. I’ve already got someone working on one aspect of it. I can share her findings if they’re relevant.’

  ‘Do you want?’ the DCC asked Mann.

  ‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘I was going to ask Mr Skinner for his help anyway.’

  ‘I’ll need to tell the chief; I can’t authorise this behind his back.’

  ‘I took that as read,’ I said. ‘You must tell him. If he has a problem with it, you can add that if he vetoes it, I’ll work independently. I’ll be trying to find the stolen boat, not Hodgson’s killer, but if my investigation bumps into yours, tough shit. I have a commission from Eden Higgins and I intend to see it through.’

  ‘Understood and okay. Assuming Sir Andrew approves, how do you want to go forward?’

  ‘On the basis of shared information. As a first step, I’d like to attend the post-mortem.’

  Mario whistled. ‘Rather you than me!’

  Forty

  I’d been in the old Glasgow City Mortuary, in the Saltmarket, once or twice but never in the new twenty-first-century model in Govan. As these things go, it was state of the art, everything stainless steel and spotless and, most important of all, the air purification system worked perfectly.

  I’d been expecting Mario to call me the evening before to give me a ‘Yes’ or a ‘No’ on whether I could attend, but he didn’t. Instead it was Andy Martin who called, the Chief Constable of Scotland himself.

  ‘Bob, how are you?’ he began, heartily, as soon as I picked up the phone in the office, having been advised by an operator that he was on the line. Even before the last of those four words were out, his tone had sent me a message of irrevocable change. But I was ready, for it cut both ways.

  Those who’ve observed me over the years will have realised by now that I have very few close friends outside the police. Within the service I have half a dozen, and for many years Andy Martin was one of the closest. Back then he wouldn’t have needed to ask how I was; he’d have known, because we’d have spoken every other day. That call, that evening, was our first contact since I’d congratulated him on his appointment a few months before.

  Since then he’d dumped my daughter, and, it was apparent from the distance in his greeting, that he’d dumped me too.

  ‘I’m fine, Andy,’ I assured him, ‘and if word hasn’t got to you yet, I wouldn’t touch the Scottish Police Authority chair with a bargepole.’

  ‘I didn’t think for a minute that you would,’ he lied. ‘Bob, about this suspicious death . . .’

  ‘Suspicious fucking death?’ I laughed. ‘The guy was tied up and left sitting in his own shit for some poor sod like me to find him. Don’t go all PC on me, Andy. The word is murder.’

  ‘Okay, it is,’ he conceded. ‘And that makes me hesitant about you being involved.’

  ‘Your hesitancy has fuck all to do with it, my friend,’ I pointed out. ‘Indeed, it isn’t relevant, for I am involved. I’ve undertaken an investigation for a client, and it led me to Jock Hodgson. I’m not backing off just because he happens to be dead. If you think I’ll impede the police inquiry, tell me, but if that’s what you do think, you’re insulting two of your best detective officers, and by the way, you’re insulting me.’

  ‘Still . . .’ he said.

  I’d had enough. ‘Sir Andrew,’ I growled, ‘if you want to deny me access and you refuse to let Lottie Mann share information with me, reme
mber that cuts both ways. And remember also that I’m a director of a bloody newspaper group!’

  ‘Don’t threaten me, Bob,’ he murmured.

  ‘My only threat to you is in your mind,’ I snapped. ‘Listen, boy, if I’d wanted your job I’d have had it. I didn’t; instead, having mentored you since you were a sprog detective and seen you rise through the ranks, I stepped aside and helped you into the chair you’re warming now.’

  ‘So you do regret not going for the post,’ he murmured.

  ‘Listen to what I’m saying, for fuck’s sake! I don’t. But frankly I’m beginning to regret not backing Maggie Steele or Mario rather than you.’

  ‘Ah,’ he exclaimed. ‘This is about Alex, isn’t it?’

  ‘Don’t bring my daughter into this,’ I warned him. ‘That’s different, because it’s personal. I should have seen you off when you worked your way back into her life after you left Karen. Hurting her once was hard to forgive. Doing it again means you’ll have an enemy for as long as I’m breathing.’

  ‘No middle ground then,’ he said, sarcastically.

  I came close to slamming the phone down, but I didn’t. Instead, with an effort, I regained control of my temper.

  ‘Like I said,’ I went on, ‘that’s personal. The Hodgson investigation and my work for Eden Higgins, that’s professional. There may be a common interest or there may not. While we find out, do you want me inside the tent pissing out, or would you rather it was the other way round?’

  ‘Oh, go ahead,’ he sighed. ‘I’ll authorise DI Mann to cooperate with you. Mario says she’s a good operator.’

  ‘She is; very.’

  I thought we were done, but he wanted the last word. ‘You’re not perfect yourself, you know, when it comes to women.’

  ‘I’m probably even more imperfect than you know, sunshine,’ I admitted, ‘but that cuts you no slack when it comes to my Alex.’

  It crossed my mind that Andy might have shown up at the Hodgson post-mortem, but he didn’t. Neither did Mario, who was heading for Inverness to cast a beady eye over Northern Division CID. Lottie Mann was the senior officer present; indeed she was the only officer there, as Dan Provan had used me as an excuse to wriggle his way out of a singularly unpleasant duty.

  The lead pathologist was a man I’d seen in court but never met. His name was Graeme Bell and he was the senior man in the Greater Glasgow area, although unlike Sarah he had no university responsibilities. He wasn’t the talkative type; he worked in silence while we looked on from a viewing gallery, happy to be screened from the action and the odour.

  He worked away for two hours, cutting, measuring, extracting, probing his subject from head to foot. Once he had completed his initial examination and got down to detail, he paid particular attention to the head, and that interested me. Then he switched to the other end and that held my attention even more closely.

  It was only when he was done that he acknowledged our presence, telling us that he’d see us in the briefing room once he’d cleaned up.

  Sarah uses Chanel after a very messy one; Bell used the gentleman’s equivalent, liberally. As he joined us, and poured himself a coffee, suddenly he stared at me.

  ‘You’re Mr Skinner, aren’t you?’ he ventured, as he sat. I nodded. ‘I thought you were gone from all this.’

  ‘So did I,’ I acknowledged. ‘I’m here as a civilian observer, that’s all.’

  ‘Mmm. How’s Sarah?’ he asked.

  I smiled. ‘Blooming.’ Clearly, word of our reunion had made its way through the pathology community.

  ‘What’s the verdict, doctor?’ Lottie Mann, not being one for small talk, asked abruptly.

  ‘He’s dead,’ Bell replied, winking as he took a sip from his mug.

  ‘We sensed that when we saw him yesterday,’ she sighed. ‘It’s nice to know we haven’t lost our touch.’

  ‘The subject died from a single gunshot wound to the head,’ the pathologist announced. ‘It was fired at close range, from the side and slightly downward. I’ve recovered a nice clean bullet lodged in the zygomatic ridge just in front of the right ear. That’s the only way I’ve been able to give you a cause of death; the body’s too decomposed for a straightforward autopsy.’ He hesitated. ‘How long has he been dead? That’s difficult to say for sure, but six weeks, minimum.’

  ‘No worries,’ Lottie replied, drily. ‘The mail we found behind his front door suggests that he died at the beginning of December.’

  ‘That’s probably right. The rate of decomposition isn’t an exact science. When I visited the scene I noticed that it was cold.’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, it was. The central heating was oil-fired, but the tank was empty. We’re guessing it ran out after he was killed.’

  ‘I see. Lucky, in one way; in a warmer environment there would have been even more flies.’

  ‘Were there many pre-mortem injuries?’ I asked.

  Bell nodded. ‘The plastic strips that secured his wrists and his left ankle to the chair were pulled so tight that they cut into the flesh. Painful, but by comparison to the other thing, insignificant.’ He paused. ‘If you were at the scene, you might remember that Mr Hodgson was barefoot. His shoes and socks had been removed.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, there’s just about enough flesh left for me to be sure that he was tortured by burning. Something like a blowlamp was used on his right foot, extensively. It’s for you to determine, Inspector Mann, but I’d say that either this man had seriously upset someone, or whoever went to work on him wanted information, and wanted it very badly indeed.’

  Forty-One

  ‘Do you want to come back to Pitt Street for a chat and a bite of lunch?’ Lottie Mann asked.

  ‘To the first, definitely not,’ I said. I’d seen enough of the former Strathclyde Police headquarters building to last me a couple of lifetimes. ‘Lunch is on the agenda, though.’

  We settled on the public cafeteria in the massive new general hospital for our post-mortem of the post-mortem, and found a table there. I’d skimped on breakfast with the morning’s business in mind, and found my appetite catching up with me. I loaded a plate with corned beef hash from the self-service buffet, trying to contain my amazement as my companion put together the biggest fry-up I’d ever seen.

  She caught my glance and read it right. ‘I know,’ she admitted, ‘it’s a classic, lethal Weegie all-day breakfast, and I do my best to resist. Usually I succeed, but after this morning, what the hell.’

  ‘How’s your wee lad?’ I asked her, as we tucked in.

  Lottie Mann is a single parent with a son around the same age as my James Andrew. Her marriage collapsed when her ex-cop husband went to jail, along with his still-serving woman on the side, for their peripheral involvement in a high-profile crime.

  ‘Jake’s great, thanks,’ she replied. ‘We’ve moved house. I bought a three-bed mid-terrace in what was the Commonwealth Games Village. It’s not huge but it’s big enough for the two of us, and for my mother when she stays over.’

  ‘But not for Scott, when he gets out?’ I ventured.

  ‘Not a chance,’ she replied. ‘The only way I want to see that man again is standing over his open coffin with a wooden stake in one hand and a hammer in the other. There are times when I have an insight into the mentality of a murderer. Thinking of him brings it on. It’s not so much what he did to me; it’s how it affected Jakey.’

  ‘I’ve been through two divorces,’ I told her. ‘The first one was a huge mistake, which I’ve been lucky enough to have the chance to rectify. The other was very bitter and very public, as you and the whole world know; but I’m over it.’ I smiled. ‘I even watched a Joey Morrocco movie the other night.’

  Joey was the actor with whom the third Mrs Skinner was caught on camera; a household name but not in mine.

>   ‘Is he still in Hollywood?’ Lottie asked.

  I winked at her. ‘If he knows what’s good for him.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you sure you didn’t meet Jock Hodgson before yesterday?’

  My laugh was loud enough to draw a sharp look from the next table, reminding me that we were surrounded by people who were under the stress of visiting friends and family in hospital.

  ‘Detective Inspector,’ I replied, more quietly, ‘I built a career on getting information out of people, without ever laying as much as a finger on them. If I’d wanted Hodgson to tell me something, I’d just have asked him and he’d have told me.’

  ‘Is that what you think? That he was tortured for information, rather than being killed brutally by a sadist?’

  ‘He wasn’t killed brutally,’ I pointed out. ‘Remember what Dr Bell found; he died from a single shot to the head. Death would have been instantaneous, and he’d have been out of his misery in that split second. Of course the killer was after something, and it’s a safe assumption that it was information: but information on what? You and Dan, and your team, have to do a complete background check on Hodgson before you can hazard a guess.’

  ‘We will do,’ she promised. ‘But how does that justify your interest, and your presence here? You must suspect that his death’s linked to the job you’re doing.’

  ‘I don’t suspect anything,’ I countered. ‘I’m an interested party, that’s all. One step at a time, Lottie: we know that the man was murdered, but really, we know eff all else about him, other than what I was told by one of his several employers. You fill in the gaps, and we’ll take it from there.’

  I left her to add sticky toffee pudding to her cardiac cocktail, and drove back east. I was passing the Harthill motorway service area, driving cautiously through a light snow shower that had sprung up from nowhere, when I decided to call Carrie McDaniels for a progress report.

  ‘Nothing yet,’ she said. ‘Your meter is still running. I can see why you gave me this job rather than doing it yourself. It’s bloody tedious.’