Joseph Hutchison, Professor of Pathology at Edinburgh University, knew Deputy Chief Constable Skinner well enough to know of his loathing of post-mortem examinations. So while he recognised the big policeman, despite his surgical gown and cap, as soon as he stepped into the theatre, it was natural for him to look up in surprise.
'Hello, Bob,' said the twinkling-eyed little scientist. 'This is a rare honour, having you visit my workshop.'
Skinner grunted a response, as he strode over to stand between Pamela Masters and Sammy Pye, who seemed to be positioned as far as possible from the post-mortem table. Clearly, the examination had been under way for some time. He glanced down at Pamela: she was slightly pale, and her cheekbones stood out a little more than usual, but otherwise she was impassive.
'Any surprises for me, Joe?' Skinner asked. 'Or haven't you got that far yet?'
'Oh yes,' said Professor Hutchison, 'I've got that far. As even the good Doctor Banks could work out, death was due to strangulation by ligature. The hyoid bone was crushed. The ligature was so tight that the blood supply to the brain would have been cut off at once, causing unconsciousness, prior to death.' He paused, coughing suddenly.
'I've examined the major internal organs. All healthy and undamaged. I'm just looking at the brain now.' He held it up, so that the police observers could see its swirling surface patterns, slicked with blood and fluid. In spite of himself, Skinner looked away. 'As you can see,' continued the Professor, 'no obvious damage here either, other than that consistent with a sudden stoppage of the blood supply.'
He paused again.
'There were other injuries, of course. Four broken ribs, all left side, ruptured left eardrum, left zygotic bone fractured – all indicative of a severe beating by a right-handed attacker, pounding on her face and body repeatedly with his fist. However, none of these would have contributed to death. They were either gratuitous, or they were an attempt to subdue the victim, prior to the sexual assaults.
'I'd say they were simply sadistic, actually, because the first thing the man did was to tie up the victim. There's a big bruise to the smal 27 of her back, consistent with the attacker having thrown her to the ground, knelt on her, real y hard, as he bound her wrists securely with the electrical cord your people say was used.'
'How about the blood on her fingernails, Joe?' Skinner asked. 'Will we get any joy there?'
'Hah,' said the Professor. 'My first piece of bad news, I'm afraid.
The lab wil have to confirm this, but I surmise that those samples were from the victim herself. There are marks on her back, near those made by the electrical plug, which conform to her nails having been crushed into her own tissue.'
'Damn it!' said the policeman. 'Still, there'll be other traces.'
There was a long silence. 'That is the real y bad news, my friend.
There aren't.'
'Eh? But what about the sexual injuries? Surely to Christ he.. .'
The little pathologist shrugged his shoulders. 'It's frustrating, I know.
'The woman was sexually attacked, by a fairly large man, and repeated penetration took place. She was sodomised first, I'd say, very painful y. Much, but not al of the blood came from the rupturing of vessels around the anus, the rest from tearing around the vagina.
The muscles in these areas were all cramped and constricted, indicating that the victim resisted throughout every attack, even at the cost of added suffering, and even if ultimately unsuccessful y.
'Yet there are no traces of semen,' The little pathologist looked up and across at Skinner. 'That's the trouble with the information superhighway, I'm afraid. Bob. There's far too much information about. Even the stupidest criminals know about DNA tracing, and can work out some fairly obvious ways of avoiding it.
'This one probably used a condom.'
Skinner slapped the wal behind him, in sudden fury, causing both Pam Masters and Sammy Pye to start in surprise. 'Bastard,' he shouted, ripping off his mask. 'The cold-blooded bastard. You sure, Joe? Not a single smear?'
Hutchison shook his head. 'Sorry chum. I understand your anger, but there it is. When you catch the guy, you may find that he has sexual injuries. This was a sadistic attack, extremely vicious, and the perpetrator is likely to show the effects upon his, er, person, for some time.
'Even then, of course, it would be virtually impossible to link such injuries to this attack.'
'Sshitt 'hissed the DCC.
'Is there nothing at all you can do?' Detective Constable Pye asked the Professor, breaking, if not clearing, the tension in the room.
It was Skinner who answered him, suddenly and forceful y. 'Yes,' he said, 'there is. And you're going to do it, Joe, aren't you?'
The pathologist sighed. 'Yes. You know we are. We will search the victim's body minutely, Constable, looking for just one hair that doesn't belong to her. We wil go though the areas in which it could be lodged with, literally, a fine-tooth comb, and we wil examine everything that isn't actually rooted.
'That will be a lot, but there is the real possibility that we will not find a single hair out of place, to be literal about it.' He paused, to look up at Skinner.
'Mind you, this is knock for knock, Bob. You'l have to send Dorward's team back to the murder scene to do exactly the same thing, to collect every loose hair for testing. Then you'll have to eliminate her son, her housekeeper, her late husband, of whom traces wil undoubtedly remain in the room, and any casual callers Mrs McG' ath may have had… sorry to be so blunt… before and after her widowhood.'
The big detective nodded. 'We'l do al that, Joe, and any more that's necessary, don't you worry. Just you go and get out your fine-tooth comb.'
10
'Can I ask you something, Bob?'
Skinner turned to Pamela and smiled. 'When couldn't you?'
'Oh come on! When I went to work for you at first; I couldn't then. And now, when I see shadows cross your face when you don't know I'm looking at you.'
'That happens a lot, does it?'
'Yes it does. For example, every time I find you looking at your son's photograph, your eyes are thousands of miles away.'
He grimaced. 'Allow me that, Pammy, please. I miss wee Jazz every moment of every day. Missing him's become a part of me, but it doesn't affect our relationship. Come on, what did you want to ask me?'
She looked around the kitchen of Skinner's bungalow in Fairyhouse Avenue, not far from the police headquarters building. 'Why have you never brought me here before?'
He looked her straight in the eye as he replied: 'Because this is the home I made with Sarah. The furniture in it we bought together.
The swing on the tree outside I made for our son.
'Gul ane's different. That's the home I made with Myra, years ago.
You know about her, al about her life and death. It seems natural for you and I to be together there, or for that matter at your place. But I haven't felt right about bringing you here, not until now. That's the truth of it.'
She looked at him, solemnly, and nodded. 'Yes, I thought you'd say that. And I understand it. So why have you brought me here this afternoon?'
He smiled back at her. 'Because this evening I'm going to begin to do what I promised you. I'm going to have dinner with Alex and Andy, and I'm going to tell them that you and I are seeing each other.
'Then tomorrow, I'm going to have lunch with the Chief in the New Club, and tell him the same thing.
'Final y, tomorrow night, I'm going to phone Sarah and talk things through with her. I'm going to ask her if she wants a divorce.'
'What if she says no?'
'At that point, I'l tell her about us. I'm sorry if that seems devious or even cowardly, but I'd sooner that Sarah and I divorce because 30 she's thought it through and wants to than because I'm putting a gun to her head.'
He saw her eyes narrow. 'You're guilty about me, aren't you?'
He shook his head at once. 'I have a clear conscience. My mother might not have seen it that way, but I do. Sara
h and I had parted before you came on the scene. But I do care for her, and I want to be as gentle on her as I can.'
'What if she tel s you she has another man?'
'I'll say, fair enough.'
'But you'l hurt inside.'
'If I do, love, that's where it'l stay. Now, let's talk about something else.'
To his surprise, she frowned, and a different shadow crossed her face. 'Remember when I dropped my car off at my place, I went up to check the flat?'
Bob nodded.
'There was a message on the answering machine. From Alan Royston.'
He snorted. 'Royston? Your ex? Did he want you to ask me to let him off the hook?'
She shook her head, vigorously 'Don't be daft. He doesn't know about us, any more than anyone else does. No, he didn't leave any message, other than for me to call him as soon as possible. He sounded funny, though – anxious, I mean. What should I do?'
'Nothing!' said Skinner, vehemently. 'Don't cal him back under any circumstances. I'm interviewing him on Monday morning, to give him a chance to explain himself. I'm stil undecided what to do about him. If you speak to him at al there's a danger that you could compromise both of us.
'In fact, till I have dealt with him, don't even mention the bugger's name to me. For now, Royston's another subject that's off limits!'
11
The Saturday evening traffic in Leith was unusually heavy, a result in part at least, Skinner guessed, of the police flagging down and questioning the driver of every grey car in sight.
Having dropped Pamela at her home, after promising to return to tel her of his confession to his daughter and her fiance, he was fifteen minutes behind schedule when he. arrived at the flat near Haymarket which Andy Martin and Alexis Skinner now shared.
As he reached for the bell, the heavy front door swung open, and Alex appeared. She was wearing light cotton jeans, a yellow teeshirt, and a very serious expression.
'Hello darlin',' said Bob, holding out a bottle of red wine, wrapped in green tissue. 'Sorry I'm late. The traffic was murder. Did you see me arrive, then, from your perch over the street?'
She nodded, kissed him on the cheek as he entered the hal, then put a hand on his chest, to stop him. 'Pops,' she said. 'There's someone here to see you. He wouldn't say what it's about, till you got here, but I think it's a problem.'
Skinner frowned. 'Who is it?'
'Come on through. You'll see.' She led her father into the living room of the second-floor flat, with its bay window overlooking the street. Andy Martin was standing at the fireplace, looking down in silence at a man seated on the couch, his back to the door. Even from that angle, hunched nervously in his seat, Skinner recognised Alan Royston.
He glared across the room. 'What is this, Andy?' he asked, with an edge of menace.
'Search me. Bob,' said Martin, as Royston rose to his feet. 'Alan phoned about three-quarters of an hour ago, to ask if I knew where you were. He said that it was very important that he saw you at once.
So I told him that if he was prepared to risk being chucked out of the window, he'd better come here.'
The media relations manager turned, nervously, to face Skinner.
He was clutching a document case, fashioned of supple, black leather.
'I'm sorry about this, sir. I had no choice, even al owing for my situation. There's no way I could have referred this to Bil Dowling,
or anyone other than you.' He paused. 'Look, could we speak in private?'
The DCC shook his head. He had no idea what the man wanted, but al of a sudden he felt as if a black cloud was gathering above him, and preparing itself to rain, very hard. 'No way, Alan. If you've got bad news for me, it won't be anything my family can't hear. But if it is about your situation, as you cal it, my daughter wil show you the door.'
Royston shook his head, and began to unzip the document case.
Instinct, as much as anything else, made Skinner hold up a hand.
'Wait just a minute, please.' He looked across at Alex, standing now, by Andy's side. 'Before we hear anything, there's something that I have to say. I came here this evening to tell you something that I should have told you both before. For the last couple of months, since just after Sarah and I separated formally, I've been having a relationship with Pam Masters.'
As he looked at his daughter, she gazed at the floor and nodded. 'I know, Pops,' she said, as though they were the only people in the room. 'I drove out to Gullane one Friday night, about three weeks ago, to surprise you; to cheer you up. I was just turning into the Green when I saw Pamela jump out other car and run into the cottage, carrying what looked like an overnight bag.'
'Och, love, I'm sorry,' Skinner blurted out. Glancing at Martin, he saw that his friend was stunned. 'So why didn't you tell Andy… for I can see you didn't?'
'Because I knew that you'd tell us both, if and when you were ready.'
He grinned, but without humour. 'You knew better than me, then.'
Abruptly, he turned to Royston. 'RightAlan, now that's said, please carry on.'
The man nodded, and finished unzipping his case. 'That's why I'm here, sir, I'm afraid.
'Noel Salmon came to see me at six o'clock. The little bastard was almost chortling with glee. He gave me this, and asked if you would care to comment on the story for his next edition.'
Slowly he withdrew, from the document case, a copy of the Sunday Spotlight. 'This will be on sale in all of its supermarket outlets around Britain tomorrow morning. They've labelled it exclusive, but they'l release copies to television and radio at nine this evening, to promote their sales.'
His hand shook as he handed Skinner the newspaper, and he winced as the policemen unfolded it and saw the front page.
' Top Cop and Sexy Sarge,' the headline blared. 'Naked romps shock police force… Exclusive, by Spotlights top reporter Noel Salmon.'
Skinner felt his spine stiffen as he stared at the tabloid, his eyes 33 widening. Beneath the headline most of the front page was taken up by a colour photograph. It had been shot with a long lens, and through a muslin-draped window, but it was clear enough. It showed a tal, naked man, standing with his back to the window and the camera.
Beyond, sitting up in bed and staring at him, as if in awe, the head and shoulders of a woman, recognisable clearly as Pam Masters.
'Holy shit!' Skinner whispered at last, as he stared at the picture.
It took a while, before he was able to shift his gaze to the story beneath. He began to read, aloud, in a strained voice.
' Top Detective Bob Skinner, Edinburgh s famous deputy chief of police, has been enjoying a steamy affair with his quote personal assistant unquote. Sergeant Pamela Masters, while his beautiful doctor wife Sarah has been staying in the US. with her parents and year-old baby son, James.
'Only last year Mrs Skinner, 32, spent a week-long vigil at her husbands bedside as he lay critically wounded in an Edinburgh hospital after being stabbed by a young girl.
'The two-timing detective, 46, thought to be a serious candidate for the post of Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, and the stunning Sarge have been enjoying raunchy romps at Skinner s luxury seaside cottage in Gullane, Scotland
– one of his three homes – and at 34-year-old Masters' penthouse pad in Edinburgh's trendy Leith district.
'This week, Detective Chief Superintendent Andy Martin refused to answer Spotlight questions on his boss s indiscretion, or on the likely reaction of Mrs Skinner, angrily ordering that your reporter be thrown out of an open press conference at which he tried to raise the issue.
'Martin, 37, is engaged to Skinner's lawyer daughter Alexis, 22, and is known throughout Scottish police circles as his personal protege.
'The high hopes that Masters, a one-time marketing whizz-kid, clearly entertained for a similarly rapid rise through the ranks, look like disappearing even more rapidly as Skinner's own career is thrown into doubt.
'Spotlight readers must ask whether the two-timing 'tec can be trusted i
n one of the country s top police positions, and whether he can continue in his other post, as security adviser to Bruce Anderson, the new Secretary of State for Scotland.
'Read next week's Spotlight for Sarah Skinners reaction to her husband's betrayal. More exclusive pies on pages 4 and 5.'
'Would you credit that?' said Skinner hoarsely as he looked up from the newspaper. 'The miserable, snooping, duplicitous little creep photographed me through my bedroom window. And the story's a fucking travesty.
'Sarah and I are formal y, legal y separated, both here and in the States. "Holidaying with her parents" for Christ's sake! She has a job over there. She took my son over there – without my agreement at that.
'What the hell else have they done? Let's see.' He lifted the paper again and tore it open at pages four and five. As he did so Alex and Andy came to stand with him, scanning the pages from either side.
The spread showed an array of photographs. One showed Sarah, white-tunic-clad at an open-air crime scene, frowning at her husband.
'Last year, at Witches Hill, I guess,' said Skinner. Others showed Martin, at the press conference, pointing to the door as he ordered Salmon from the room, then glaring angrily at Alan Royston. A fourth, taken in the street below, showed Alex andAndy leaving home, casually dressed.
Finally there was a series of three photographs, in colour like the rest. They had been taken from a high vantage-point looking down into the garden of the Gullane cottage. The first showed Bob and Pam, kissing. In the second, she was kneeling before him, her face buried in his lap. In the third, he had gathered her up in his arms, and was carrying her towards the house.
'The dirty little sod,' Alex cried out. 'Imagine photographing us in the street like that. And those in Gullane… How could they have taken them?'
Icily calm now, Skinner shrugged. 'The window shot, that's obvious. They waited outside and they got lucky. The others… they could only have been taken from one place. The big house at the top of the Green, the one that belongs to our chum. He's in the Seychelles just now and the place is empty. They must have climbed on to the roof.'
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