Bob Skiinner 21 Grievous Angel

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘I wouldn’t say that, Jeff. The very fact that the thing was still in Newcastle, that tells us something. Unless they went all the way down there to borrow it for the job . . . and that’s unlikely: it would have been easier to steal something local . . . then Tyneside is where they’re from.’

  ‘Does Tony Manson have a Tyneside connection?’

  ‘Not that I’ve ever heard of. Maybe that’s the problem; maybe somebody there wants to connect with him. But that’s something I’ll ask him when I see him tomorrow. While you’re on, is all quiet with Bella Watson?’

  ‘Yes. Steele and Mackie are still down the drains, but they’ve had nothing to report. Big Lennie’s still there, so that’s hardly surprising.’

  He was right. ‘Fuck it,’ I said. ‘Pull them, Jeff. Tell them to stand down. It’s a waste of overtime. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  I ended the call and went back to the table. My coffee was stone cold, so I made a nonsense of the expensive beans by sticking the mug in the microwave to warm for a few seconds. Thornton and Alex were still chatting and laughing, and I was pulled back to the realisation that this peaceful family scene was never going to be repeated. I’d been expecting to play golf with my father-in-law, so I’d made no plans to entertain him. I phoned the clubhouse, and managed to get the last table for Sunday lunch. The dress rules required a jacket and tie, but Thornton was clad appropriately. Just after twelve, I sent Alex off to dress like a lady, and he and I were left alone again.

  He spelled it out for me. ‘This is how I want it to be, Bob, her last memory of me. Unless there’s a remission, and they’ve barely mentioned that notion, I won’t see her again. She thinks she’s grown up, but she’s not ready to handle Grandpa dying in a morphine haze, and I don’t want to see her cry. You can come, son, when it gets near the end. Jean’ll need your support. But not Alexis; not my wee girl. Okay?’

  ‘Okay, Thornie. It’s your death; it’ll be as you wish.’

  ‘Good lad. One thing though; make sure they play “Magical Mystery Tour” at my funeral. I wasn’t kidding; that’s how I think of it.’

  Indoors, the phone rang, then stopped. I assumed that Alex had picked it up.

  ‘How are you, son?’ he asked.

  ‘Me? I’m fine.’

  ‘And the girlfriend?’

  ‘Her too.’

  ‘And the other one?’

  ‘Someone I met in the course of an ongoing investigation, then spoke to again, yesterday.’

  ‘Then brought her out here to meet and confuse your daughter.’

  I nodded. ‘Yes, I probably shouldn’t have done that. We had a talk, though, and I think she’s all right.’

  ‘Of course Alexis is all right! It’s you I’m bothered about. You’re vulnerable, Bob. You haven’t a clue how to handle women, and I don’t want to see you get hurt. You’ve had enough o’ that for any man’s lifetime. Be careful, lad. That’s all I’m saying.’

  I nodded, and he said no more, until Alex rejoined us, in a navy blue dress with a matching short-sleeved jacket, an outfit that I hadn’t seen before. She might not have been old enough for me to give her a credit card, but I had an account in John Lewis and she was able to charge things to it.

  ‘That was Alison on the phone, Pops.’ She smiled. ‘She said that her head’s clear and she’ll see you later.’

  I didn’t offer to drive to the golf club. It’s less than a quarter of a mile from the cottage and that would have seemed distinctly odd to Alex. So we walked, round the corner, along the path beside the Anglican church and through the car park. Thornton was steady on his feet, but I let him set the pace, and it was slow. He covered it up, though, by pausing every so often, to admire the church, to point out a tree in blossom, and to question Alex about some of the big houses on the skyline. Even then, she knew a lot more about the village than I do.

  He was still eating well, though. He always had done, and when I saw him tuck into Mrs Mann’s famous steak and kidney pie, I could understand why he had rejected the offer of chemotherapy. It would have been torture to him.

  We had a table in the bay window; as we ate he was able to look out across the first and eighteenth holes of Number One golf course, at the steady stream of players starting and finishing their rounds. ‘Anybody who’s a member here is a lucky man,’ he declared. ‘Will you put my name forward?’

  ‘Of course I will,’ I replied, taken by surprise.

  ‘Then please do. I know that the waiting list here’s as long as God’s arm, but it does no harm to have ambitions in life. The day you run out of things to look forward to, you might as well be dead.’

  My spirits were lifted. Thornie might be making preparations, but he hadn’t given up. Whatever he might have said earlier, he had a few quid on at twenty to one.

  ‘Isn’t that right, Alexis?’ he continued. ‘What are you looking forward to?’

  ‘Getting that CD from Mia,’ she replied, instantly.

  He laughed. ‘I was thinking more long-term.’

  She shrugged. ‘Being older. Being sixteen so that Pops doesn’t have to get someone to be with me all the time he’s not there. Leaving school and going to university. Being a lawyer and having my own money.’

  ‘What about boyfriends?’

  She frowned. ‘I haven’t seen anyone I like yet, Grandpa.’

  ‘Good answer. There’s no harm in being hard to please. But what about exciting things? When I was your age I wanted to play for Rangers. I made it too, but it was only Cambuslang Rangers, not the big team.’

  She shifted in her seat; Alex didn’t show diffidence very often. ‘I’d like to be a singer,’ she admitted. ‘Next year I’m going to try to get into the High School musical.’ That was news to me. ‘Mrs Medine, the music teacher, thinks I’m good enough.’

  ‘Then go for it, my love, but remember this: never let your dreams cloud your judgement.’

  As we walked home, steadily, along the main street, the weather was breaking, and storm clouds were gathering in the west. Thornton decided that he would head for home, before the worst of it hit. We stood on the green to see him off; just before he turned the corner he waved, and that was the last his granddaughter ever saw of him.

  I was still shocked, profoundly, by everything that had happened, when Alison arrived a few hours later, although by that time I’d made some phone calls and found a seconder and additional nominees for Thornie’s membership application.

  She cheered me up, as soon as she stepped through the front door, by walking straight into the kitchen and looking round, including behind the door, then doing the same thing in the bathroom and, finally, the bedroom.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked her, puzzled.

  She grinned. ‘Checking for another woman.’

  ‘No women have been here today,’ I promised, ‘other than Her Upstairs with her headphones on. Just one elderly gentleman, her granddad, but he’s gone now.’

  ‘I didn’t know she still had one.’

  I almost said, ‘Not for much longer,’ but stopped when I realised that it wouldn’t be fair to load her with a secret to be kept from Alex. It was going to be tough enough for me to do that. ‘Yes,’ I replied, instead. ‘She’s the apple of his eye, and vice versa.’

  I led her back into the kitchen and opened a bottle of New Zealand pinot gris that I’d been persuaded to try by the nice lady in the upmarket grocer opposite the golf club, to go with the chicken salad that I’d knocked up. ‘How did the girlie night go?’ I asked as I handed her a glass.

  ‘It was the quietest we’ve ever had,’ she confessed. ‘Leona wasn’t drinking, since she’s great with child, and I was still a bit morose after making such a tit of myself in the Sheraton.’

  ‘Get over that,’ I told her. ‘I’ve never had a woman throw a wobbly at me before. I’m beginning to see it as flattering.’

  ‘Well, don’t. If you want to screw little Miss Radio Star, you carry on. I’ll get over that too. In fact, why don’t
you put your name on that “Two’s Company” dating thing they have in the Scotsman. I’ll write the ad for you. “Thirty-something vulnerable widower, GSOH, own teeth, two cars, one nice, one crap, seeks twenty-something lady with ample tits with a view to companionship, hill walking, fine dining and lots of shagging.” You’ll be amazed by the responses you get.’

  ‘Vulnerable,’ I murmured. ‘You said “vulnerable”. It’s the second time that word’s been used about me today.’

  ‘But you are, my dear. It’s part of your attraction. You are so patently lonely and bereft that every woman who sees you wants to give you a great big hug, then carry on from there. If you like, I could take the word out of your matchmaking ad copy and substitute “big dick”, but it wouldn’t get nearly as many replies.’

  ‘I really don’t have a clue, do I?’

  She took my arm and led me to the living room. ‘No, Bob, you don’t. It’s just as well you’ve got your daughter to look after you. She’s the best minder you could possibly have. Nobody will take advantage of you while she’s around.’

  ‘That’s good to know. So back to last night; sounds as if you had a real fun time.’

  She shook her head. ‘No,’ she murmured. ‘I hate to see my pal being taken to the emotional cleaners, but she is, by that shit of a husband. She’s vulnerable too, Bob. You’d make a great couple, if it wasn’t for Roland.’

  ‘I doubt that. She married a politician. That shows a lack of judgement in my book.’

  She giggled. ‘Don’t be cruel to my friend.’

  It was time to eat so I called for Alex, but had to go upstairs and pull the headphone jack from her CD player to get her attention. She had been singing along to something by Reba McEntire . . . yes, I hear you ask, what the hell was a Scots thirteen-year-old doing listening to Reba? . . . and her face flushed when she realised I’d heard. ‘You’re a cert for the school show,’ I told her, ‘but country music might be a bit risky for the audition. Something more mainstream, maybe. How about Kim Wilde?’

  ‘She’s your generation, Pops.’

  Whether she wanted to get back to band practice I knew not, but she went upstairs again almost as soon as supper was over, leaving us to watch a crime drama on television that soon had us laughing at its ineptitude. The storm had passed over, so we gave up on it, and took a couple of beers outside.

  ‘What does GSOH mean?’ I asked her, in the twilight.

  ‘Good state of health, man. You do have your own teeth, don’t you?’

  I bared them in a wolfman grin. ‘Vulnerable, eh?’

  She put her head on my shoulder. ‘Afraid so. Sometimes, I wish I loved you, Bob, but if I did, I’d only wind up getting hurt.’

  ‘I’d keep you safe.’ As it turned out I couldn’t, but that was a few years down the road.

  ‘Nobody’s safe,’ she whispered. ‘Not one of us. You should know that.’

  I did. Thornie’s visit had reminded me of that. I held her to me, as if I was shielding her . . . but equally, I might have been hiding behind her.

  We turned in early, and fell asleep quickly; deeply too, for when the mobile sounded on the bedside table, Alison didn’t stir, and for me it seemed to be part of a dream. It wasn’t though, and as I came to, I realised why I’d been so slow to react. Of course, it wasn’t my ringtone; it wasn’t my phone, it was hers. I shook her, but all she did was mumble and roll over and into me. So I took the call myself.

  ‘Alison’s phone,’ I growled. ‘This better be serious.’

  ‘It is,’ a male voice replied: a voice I knew, Detective Superintendent Alastair Grant.

  And he knew mine too. ‘Bob? Is that you?’

  ‘Yes. Now hold your fucking horses and give her time to wake up.’

  I switched on the light and watched her climb slowly out of sleep. I waited until she could focus on me. ‘It’s your gaffer,’ I told her. ‘He says it’s serious.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  I had no idea. I looked at my radio alarm. ‘One twenty-two.’

  ‘Shit.’ She took the phone from me. ‘Yes, sir.’ I watched her as she listened. I was thinking that she’d been excessively rank conscious for someone sitting up naked in bed in the middle of the night; the situation would have made me laugh, but for the look on her face.

  ‘I understand,’ she said, eventually. ‘Yes, I’ll get there as soon as I can.’

  By the time she’d pushed the ‘end call’ button, I was out of bed and reaching for my dressing gown on its hook behind the bathroom door. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘There’s been another stabbing, fatal this time, in Jamaica Street. He thinks it may be linked to last weekend’s.’

  ‘Jamaica Street?’ I repeated. ‘That’s not your area.’

  ‘No, but it’s just round the corner from that pub, the Giggling Goose.’

  I knew why she’d been called. ‘That’s a gay bar, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right. Mr Stein’s told the boss to get involved; he wants me to meet up with the Gayfield Square CID team.’

  ‘Why the fuck’s Grant not going?’ I complained, as she headed for the bathroom. ‘You haven’t been involved in the Grove Street investigation.’

  ‘Because he’s been at a family party in Perth, and he’s staying there overnight.’

  ‘Who’s in charge from Gayfield?’

  ‘DCI Pringle. I’ve never worked with him before. Do you know him?’

  ‘Yeah. Dan’s a sound guy,’ I added. ‘He’s old school, and he looks a bit like PC Plod, but underestimate him at your peril. You get ready, and I’ll make some coffee.’

  She was showered and dressed inside ten minutes. Her hair was still damp, but it would dry in the car. She was flustered. ‘Be cool,’ I told her as she took a wolf-sized bite from a slice of toast, ‘and don’t go charging in there. As far as Dan’s concerned, it’s his crime scene; you’ll be there more or less as an observer.’

  ‘Fine by me. All I’ve done is read the paperwork on our inquiry. A fat lot of use I’ll be.’

  I handed her a mug of Nescafe, strong, and heavy with sugar; I didn’t want her nodding off at the wheel. ‘You don’t need to be any use. Keep your head down, take notes and compare the scene with the photos you’ve seen of the other one. Were there any exceptional factors about that?’

  ‘One that struck me: the witness statement from Grove Street. I told you that the guy, Robert Wyllie, kept changing his story, yes? He started off by saying that he and his mate, Archie Weir, were attacked, no more than that, but finally admitted that they were out to rough up a gay bloke. However, he maintained that they never actually got that far. What he claims is that their target rumbled them.’

  ‘That he didn’t act in self-defence?’

  ‘Not according to Wyllie; his final account reads as if they were lured into Grove Street. He says that the man was heading up Morrison Street, then took a quick turn. They followed him but he was nowhere to be seen. They went a few yards and then he was on them. Wyllie was stabbed first, in the leg. He went down, Weir started to run away, but the man with the knife pursued him and went to work on him. Seven stab wounds in all, two in the back, one in each arm and three in the abdomen. He turned back towards Wyllie, who was still on the ground holding his leg, but just then the fourth person came round the corner and the attacker ran off.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said, as she gulped her coffee, pulling a face at its sweetness. ‘You have that background knowledge, they don’t. So go there and find out what they do have. Another live witness would be a good start. How’s the guy Weir, by the way?’

  ‘On a ventilator. They don’t expect him to make it.’

  ‘Mmm. Not good.’ I took the empty mug from her, and kissed her; on the forehead, to avoid smearing her lipstick. ‘On you go now. You’re a star, and you’re going to leave us all behind.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she murmured. ‘I’ll see you.’ I thought she’d go then, but she stayed in my arms. ‘Not for a while, though. I’ve g
ot to be careful; waking up with you could be habit-forming.’

  I’d been thinking the same thing. I locked the door after her, then went back to bed, but I was done with sleep for the night. I lay there, aware of Alison’s scent on the duvet and on the pillow, my mind working, contemplating the crime scene that she was driving towards. My curiosity wasn’t idle. I found myself hoping that by the time they got there it would have been wrapped up, plenty of eye witnesses and an arrest made, either a gang killing or a dispute between a couple of macho guys that had gone too far, and nothing to do with the Grove Street attack that sounded as if it was going to become a full-scale murder inquiry before long.

  But if it wasn’t, if the evidence pointed to a link between the two, then it would be a single homicide investigation, crossing divisional boundaries. I had no intention of volunteering, but I knew there was every chance that Alf Stein would decide that it fell within the loose remit of my unit and thus would dump it in my lap.