Skinner's ghosts bs-7

by Quintin Jardine

  'So?'

  'They bought it. Bailey swore blind, and Whitehead backed him up, that nothing dodgy ever happened at Seafield. Then he told me that on the morning of the incident that McCartney was nicked for, Dougie Terry, Charles's minder, cal ed him. He asked him to pick up a parcel from a workshop just off Dairy Road, and deliver it to big Ricky at his home address.

  'Bailey said that he didn't look in the parcel, but that it was long and rectangular and was about the right weight for a couple of plates.'

  'Could he remember the address of the workshop?' asked Martin, eagerly.

  'Yes, sir. He gave it to me. He said the guy who handed over the package was cal ed Eddie Sweeney. I checked, but it doesn't appear that he's known to us.'

  The Head of CID smiled. 'Good work right enough, Sammy. Of course, there's nothing to link our man on the moors with Sweeney, but Bailey's information gives us grounds to pull him in. When we squeeze him, you never know what'l pop out.

  'I should really turn it over to Superintendent Pringle. It's his divisional area. But what the hell, you did the legwork on this, so let's you and I pay a call on Mr Sweeney ourselves.'

  47

  As Lord Archibald had anticipated. Skinner's way was blocked by a small group of photographers as he, Mitchell Laidlaw and Alex stepped out of their taxi in Chambers Street. Beside them stood the exultant figure of Noel Salmon.

  'Look this way, Bob,' the Spotlight journalist cal ed, a triumphant edge to his tone.

  'What,' the policeman called out, with an easy contemptuous smile.

  'You mean short, cross-eyed and crumpled?' Several of the photographers laughed.

  'Sorry about this, Bob,' said one, a bulky, bearded figure whom Skinner knew well, raising his camera to focus on the group.

  'That's al right, Denis. I've never objected to being photographed before, so why should I now?' He looked to his left, at Laidlaw and Alex. 'Just walk on,' he said, 'and smile if you look into anyone's lens.'

  'How does it feel to have a crook for a father, Miss Skinner?'

  Alex stopped in her tracks and turned to face her heckler, the Spotlight reporter. She stared at him with something closely related to the unblinking glare with which her father had transfixed a thousand criminals through his career. 'Are you just plain stupid, or can you really stand the cost of a defamation action, Mr Salmon?' she asked him, edging closer to him, as the little man backed off.

  'Because when this is over, what you've just said will give us grounds.'

  'Come on, lass,' said her father. 'That'll come in due course. Let's not keep Archie waiting.'

  The trio strode off through a gateway and towards the entrance to the Crown Office, from which Scotland's criminal prosecution service is run. The photographers watched them leave. They were not al owed beyond the pavement, since the building also housed Edinburgh's Sheriff Court, from whose precincts they were always banned.

  Inside the recently built office, Laidlaw headed for the reception desk. His approach was anticipated by a young woman in a smart grey suit. 'Hello,' she introduced herself. 'I'm Susan Shaw, the Lord Advocate's assistant. If you'll follow me, I'll take you straight to Lord Archibald.'

  They walked in silence as she led them along a corridor which ended at a light oak door. She knocked lightly upon it, then held it open for Skinner and his companions.

  Lord Archibald crossed the room to met them, smal, grey and twinkling, his hand outstretched in greeting. 'Hello Bob,' he said, then smiled as he saw the other man. 'I'm not too surprised to see you here, Mitch.'

  'It's an honour to be in your new chambers, My Lord,' Laidlaw responded. He and Archie Nelson had been contemporaries at university, and had served their legal apprenticeships in the same office. He turned to Alex. 'This is my assistant. Miss Skinner.'

  The LordAdvocate's eyebrows rose in surprise, as he looked from Alex, to her father and back again. 'We'd better watch our step, then,' he said, managing to sound not in the least patronising.

  'Come, let's sit down.' He turned towards a big conference table to the left of his desk. On the far side, sat two men, unsmiling, in dark suits. Neither rose as the others joined them..

  'These are the investigating officers,' announced Lord Archibald, briskly. 'Deputy Chief Constable Cheshire, and Detective Chief Superintendent Ericson. They've just arrived.' The men nodded in turn as they were introduced. Cheshire was in his mid-fifties, Ericson ten years younger. Skinner had heard of the Manchester DCC. He had a reputation within his own force as a fierce disciplinarian, and had handled a number of similar inter-constabulary investigations in England for the Home Office.

  He gave him an affable, appraising look. The Englishman stared back, with an expression which made the room suddenly colder.

  Skinner knew what the eyes said. 'I don't like bent coppers, mate, and when I get finished, you 'II know how much I don't like them.'

  His own gaze hardened. 'Normally, I'd be pleased to meet you gentlemen,' he began. 'But in these circumstances, I can't honestly say that I am. However, I recognise that you have a job to do, and as long as you approach it fairly and impartially, we'll co-operate in any way we can.'

  Cheshire shook his bul et head. His greying hair was cut so close that it almost seemed shaved, and he wore the deep tan of an outdoorsman. 'Let me disabuse you of that notion, Mr Skinner,' he barked. 'Presumption of innocence is all very well for an ordinary criminal investigation. This isn't. In investigating al egations against policemen, I begin with a presumption of guilt. This time, it'll be up to you to prove yourself innocent.'

  Mitchell Laidlaw stiffened, and seemed about to intervene, but Lord Archibald forestal ed him with the slightest wave of a hand. 'If that's the approach which the Home Office has al owed you to take in the past,' he said, in his light, lilting accent, 'I'm afraid you'll find 156 that we do things differently in Scotland. I think it best if I begin by setting out, for everyone's benefit, the basis on which this enquiry will proceed.' He leaned forward, linking his short stubby fingers together, and looking directly at Cheshire.

  'This is, in law and in fact, my investigation. You are here to look into the al egations which have been made against Deputy Chief Constable Skinner, and to report to me on the weight of the evidence.

  If your findings are that there is a criminal case to be answered, the precognition of witnesses will be undertaken by the Procurator Fiscal of Strathclyde, and his deputies, al members of the Crown Office staff.

  'You and Mr Ericson wil not take formal statements from potential witnesses, nor will you be permitted to interview Mr Skinner under caution. In all of this, I must insist that you adopt a neutral attitude.

  You wil make no suggestions to witnesses, and you wil conduct all your interviews together, never individually.

  'You are not witch finders, gentlemen; you are simply my agents.'

  He switched his gaze to Laidlaw. 'Do those ground rules seem fair to you?'

  'Perfectly, with the proviso that we have access to any notes taken by Mr Cheshire and Mr Ericson in the course of interviews.'

  'That's fine by me,' said the Lord Advocate,'… which means it's fine!'

  He reached for a thin green manilla folder which lay on the table and pul ed it towards him. 'Right, let's get down to business.' He looked at Laidlaw again. 'Mitchell,' he said, in a quiet, and suddenly very formal tone, 'this is what we have against your client.'

  He opened the folder and took out a single document.

  'That's it?' asked Alex, almost incredulous.

  The Lord Advocate looked at her, and nodded. 'For the moment, it is. Uncovering the rest, or discounting it, is what this investigation is about.

  'This is a covering letter from Mr Noel Salmon, of the newspaper Spotlight. It claims that he received information that a corrupt payment, in the amount of 100,000, was made to Mr Skinner, with a view to securing for the donor a favourable outcome of a case under investigation.

  'The money, it al eges, was paid into a new account in
the Guernsey office of the private bank JZG. The account is numbered, UK 73461, and the deposit was received in cash.'

  'From whom?' asked Skinner, sharply, but his solicitor laid a hand on his sleeve, as if to silence him.

  'Patience, Bob,' said the Lord Advocate. 'The sum was delivered by courier, with a covering letter of instruction, unsigned.' He looked across at Laidlaw, who nodded.

  'Where is the evidence linking this payment to Mr Skinner?' he asked.

  'Mr Salmon's letter advises me that he is informed that with the covering letter was a note saying that the beneficiary of the account was Mr Robert Morgan Skinner, of Edinburgh. The note, it is al eged, identified you specifical y by giving your birthplace and your date of birth. Further, it is said that there was a separate sheet of paper with the note, which bears a sample of Mr Skinner's signature.'

  Mitchell Laidlaw rocked back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling, and took a breath so deep that for a second or two, it seemed that the buttons on his waistcoat would pop. 'I see,' he boomed at last, as his explosive exhalation subsided. 'But you are only speaking of allegations, Archie. Al egations, if I may say so, from a very disreputable source, with a known grudge against my client.

  'If the Secretary of State has suspended a senior police officer based purely on what you've told me, I'm going straight to the Court of Session; I'm going to rouse the Lord President himself and have that suspension lifted.'

  Skinner looked at his friend, seeing him once more in a new light.

  But Lord Archibald shook his head. 'No, no, Mitch,' he retorted quietly. 'I wouldn't have let him do that, and you know it. Salmon's letter says that the manager of the bank refused to discuss the matter with him. Quite right too, and beneficial. Not even the Spotlight would dare run the story this Sunday without corroboration from him.' He paused.

  'However, the same manager was pragmatic and wise enough to agree to discuss it with me.'

  'Why should he do that, with respect?' asked Alex.

  'Because I'm a member of the Government, and because JZG has a banking licence in the UK. I didn't have to spell anything out to him, once I'd convinced him who I was.

  'I called him this morning, from the Secretary of State's office, and established my bona fides simply by having him cal me back through the Scottish Office switchboard. His name is Mr Medine: French influence, I suppose.

  'He confirmed to me that account number UK 73461 does exist, and that the substance of the al egation is correct. He's awaiting the arrival of Mr Cheshire and Mr Ericson. He doesn't normally go to the office on Saturdays, but he's making an exception tomorrow.'

  Skinner leaned forward, looking up the table towards the Lord Advocate. 'We've got access to this man too, Archie, yes?'

  'In principle, you have. I can't order him to see you, of course.'

  'Can we make life easier for him, then?'

  'What do you have in mind?'

  The policeman smiled. 'Wel, since this is an informal enquiry, and since we'll have access to witnesses and interview notes, how about letting one of my team accompany your men to Guernsey to sit in on the interview?'

  Cheshire snorted. 'Nice try, Skinner.'

  Lord Archibald frowned at first at the investigator's comment, then smiled as he began to think the request through. 'As an observer, you say? Not to conduct the interview in any way?'

  Skinner shook his head. 'No, but with the right to ask supplementary questions at the end.'

  The Law Officer turned to the investigators. 'Apart from there being no precedent, can you give me a good reason why I shouldn't allow this?'

  'Potential intimidation of witnesses, sir,' said Cheshire, aggressively.

  'Indeed? I'd expect a witness to be intimidated by two senior police officers, but hardly, if I read Mr Skinner's mind aright, by a legal apprentice just out of university.'

  Alex looked round at her father in surprise. He grinned at her and nodded.

  'Al right, Bob,' said Archibald. 'I agree. But your representative must not interrupt Mr Cheshire's questioning, mind.' He turned to the men from Manchester. 'You will al ow Miss Skinner to ask supplementaries, though.'

  Cheshire sat silent and grim-faced, a flush showing even through the heavy tan. It was Ericson who broke the silence. 'Very good, sir,' he said, turning to Alex. 'Leave me your office number, Miss Skinner, and I'l advise you of our travel plans, once they're made.'

  48

  Even with the aid of a street map, and even although the Chief Superintendent's flat was less than a mile away, Martin and Pye had trouble finding Eddie Sweeney's workshop. It was tucked away out of sight at the end of one of the lanes which ran off Dairy Road, behind a Georgian town house, a forgotten treasure which had been rescued by an office developer. It was perhaps eight yards across, and twenty deep, a wooden structure with a corrugated iron roof, bounded at the rear and on the right by the high red brick wal s of the adjoining building.

  Before setting out from Fettes, Martin had called the force's criminal intelligence unit, and the national criminal records department, to check on their target. The second source had yielded a faxed photograph, taken at the time of a conviction in Aberdeen twelve years earlier, for receiving a stolen motor car, an offence which the Sheriff had taken lightly enough to punish with only a year's probation. That had been completed impeccably, and since then there had been no sign of a subsequent transgression.

  The policemen drew up in Martin's Mondeo beside big grey-painted double gates which seemed to cover almost the full width of the workshop. The lane was a dead end, and so narrow that the Chief Superintendent had to position the car careful y, to al ow both Pye and himself to open their doors.

  The gates were secured by a heavy chain and padlock, but inset, to the right, there was a smaller doorway, black-painted, standing out from the surrounding grey, and with a brass nameplate on which the name 'E. Sweeney, Motor Engineer' was etched.

  Martin banged on the grey gate. 'Mr Sweeney. Police. Open up, please.' There was no reply, no sound from within. He pushed the smaller door, but itsYale was secure. 'Is there a back entrance to this place, d'you think?' Martin mused.

  'Not unless it's through the wal of the whisky bond next door,'

  Pye pointed out. 'Maybe he closes early on a Friday.'

  The Chief Superintendent sighed. 'Well he bloody shouldn't,' he said. 'This week started with a locked door, now it's ending with another. Fuck this, Sammy, I'm fed up being pissed about. I think I feel an accidental stumble coming on.' Abruptly, he lifted his right foot and slammed the door with his heel. There was a crack as the keeper of the Yale gave under the force of the kick.

  'Oh dear,' said the young detective constable, 'that was nearly a nasty fal. Are you al right, sir?'

  'I've been worse. Thank God that door was there to stop me.'

  There were no windows in the workshop; it was in darkness as they stepped inside. The little light which spilled in from the small doorway lit up a red car, jacked up at the front, but beyond the gloom was too deep to make out anything. The place smelled: of oil, of grease, of old leather… and of something else. 'Christ,' said Pye, 'd'you think Sweeney just pisses in the corner when he's needing?'

  Martin said nothing, but peered around near the entrance until he found a light switch. He threw it, and after a few seconds a sequence of half a dozen neon tubes flickered into life. As they did, Pye had reached the red car, and could see beyond.

  He gave a slight, involuntary shout, and started. For a moment Martin thought that the young man would turn and run, but he held his ground. 'Sweeney's in after all, sir,' he whispered.

  Quickly, Martin stepped up beside him and together they advanced, into the furthest corner of the workshop.

  Clearly, Eddie Sweeney had not been a big man in life. His feet only just touched the ground as he sat in the green, straight-backed wooden chair, his wrists and ankles lashed securely to its legs with heavy black insulating tape. But in death his eyes were huge. They stood out in thei
r sockets, seemingly only a very short step from popping out altogether.

  Martin leaned over and stared into the grotesque, purple, dead face. 'Oh, Sammy,' he whispered, 'we're dealing with a very special mind here. This man's an expert. He believes in death as an art form.

  'I've only ever encountered one other like him.'

  Pye crouched down beside his boss, looking up at the dead, head-lol ing Sweeney. And as he did he saw that the man's nose was swollen, with white wisps of cotton wool protruding from the nostrils.

  His cheeks were distorted too, and something showed between the protruding teeth; something dirty, yellow and furred.

  'That's not his tongue, is it, sir?'

  Martin chuckled, blackly. 'Not even the most liverish tongue ever looked like that.' He stood up and leaned over the body. '"Yes, there's a grazed lump on his head. Our Mr Sweeney was cracked on the head from behind, then taped into his chair.'

  He shook his head. 'What an imagination, and what a way to go.

  The kil er packed his nose with cotton wool, rammed a tennis ball into his mouth, and stood back to watch while the poor sod suffocated.'

  Pye shuddered. 'A tennis bal?' He looked closer. 'In the name of

  … So it is.'

  'Game, set and match to our man,' said the Chief Superintendent,

  'or so he thinks. We'd better take a look around, for the sake of form.

  But this is a very thorough person. I don't think for a moment that we'l find anything to help us.'

  He stepped across to the far side of the workshop, where a grey filing cabinet stood against the wal, with its second drawer slid open.

  On the floor beside it there was a big brown steel waste bin. Martin looked inside. 'Sammy, forget it,' he cal ed to his young col eague.

  'He got what he was after. There's ash in here, and you can bet that once it was the paperwork related to a set of plates, supplied to customer unknown, no questions asked.'

  'Are you sure that this was the man we're after, sir? Maybe Sweeney was in bother with someone else.'