Bob Skiinner 21 Grievous Angel

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘Truthfully? Closer than I was to my own dad.’

  ‘Then this is going to affect you just as much as it does Alex, and probably more. You helped her to deal with her mother’s death. Now it’s her turn to help you.’

  I smiled at her, but she probably didn’t realise because of the damn mask. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Any time.’ She paused. ‘Have you got next weekend planned?’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ I replied. ‘I don’t have tonight’s dinner planned. Why?’

  ‘I was wondering; would you like to go crewing?’

  ‘Say that again?’

  ‘Crewing, Bob, crewing.’ She shook her head. ‘Bloody men! Have you ever done any sailing?’ she went on.

  ‘Cross-Channel ferries; that’s all. Boats are not my thing.’

  ‘In that case . . . the thing is, my brother Eden has a yacht. He keeps it at Inverkip Marina. It’s quite a big boat and sometimes I help him with it. He’s asked me if I’ll go out with him next weekend. Would you and Alex like to come?’

  I wasn’t sure. My weekends usually involved golf unless the weather was too rough, and for a real golfer there is no such thing. Then there was the potential embarrassment of being seasick. The ferry to France had never bothered me, but there had been an occasion when I’d gone on a fairground waltzer with Alex, and come very close to chucking my cookies. Then there was the prospect of Gleneagles, with Mia.

  The last of those swung me. ‘Okay,’ I agreed. ‘That would be good.’ Accepting Alison’s invitation was a means of chickening out of something that for some reason was making me far more nervous than an inshore yacht on the Firth of Clyde, but she wasn’t to know that. Besides, I might actually enjoy it, and I knew that Alex would. ‘When do we leave?’

  ‘Ideally,’ she said, ‘we’ll drive across on Friday evening and stay the night on board with Eden and Rory . . . my nephew . . . so that we’re ready to cast off early. It’ll be a two-day voyage, then back on Sunday.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ I agreed, ‘subject to . . .’

  ‘I know: the demands of the job. Try not thinking about things that might get in the way and maybe they won’t.’

  ‘What age is Rory?’ I asked, casually.

  She laughed. ‘Back off, Dad. He’s only ten.’

  ‘Officers!’ The call was imperious. ‘If I might have your renewed attention,’ the wee professor continued.

  We moved towards the table, where a once-functional human being lay, turned more or less inside out. For anyone present during an autopsy, it’s essential to remain completely detached. The worst thing you can do is allow your mind to personalise the situation, to imagine, for one second, a loved one of your own in the place of the thing under examination. As I’ve said before, I had mastered that by that stage of my career, but Alison had put in less mortuary time than I had. As we approached the body I felt her shudder, and put my arm around her waist to steady her.

  Joe saw and understood. ‘Do you want to take a break before we carry on?’ he asked. ‘The atmosphere in this place can be rather overpowering.’

  By that time she was over her lapse. ‘No,’ she said, brusquely. ‘Let’s get on with it.’

  ‘If you’re sure.’

  ‘I am,’ she snapped. I let my supporting arm fall to my side.

  ‘Very good.’ The pathologist looked up at me. Behind him his assistant was . . . doing something else with a piece of Archie Weir, and I didn’t need to know which piece or what he was up to. ‘This is a similarly forceful attack to that on Mr McCann. Seven wounds this time; attacker also right-handed. None of them was instantly fatal, as you know, but the overall effect was massive organ damage, liver, lung and kidney, and blood loss, sufficient to cause brain damage. While the wounds were not as deeply penetrative as those on the earlier victim, this may have been due to Mr Weir putting up more of a struggle, initially at least. In any event they are deep enough, and wide enough, for us to have established a pattern identical to those inflicted upon Mr McCann, and to say with authority that they were caused by the same weapon or by its identical twin. Therefore, Bob, Alison, you may proceed with your investigation on the basis that you are looking for a single assailant. No doubt the tabloids will say, “Police seek frenzied knife killer,” or some such; in this case they won’t be exaggerating. I must tell you that I hope you catch him soon. This is an extremely dangerous person.’

  ‘That was quite a statement for Joe to make,’ Alison mused as we left the morgue. ‘What’s our next step?’

  ‘I’ll have Inspector Hesitant issue a press release tomorrow confirming that we’re looking for the same man in each case. I don’t know if we can go much further than that. We don’t have a description worth a light beyond youngish, tall, slim, and it’s pointless putting that out; it covers thousands of men. As for issuing a general warning . . .’ I stopped and thought that over. ‘Christ, all we can say is that both victims were in their twenties, as are most of the guys that are out and about at the weekend.’ I looked at her. ‘Have you got a name for McCann’s pal yet?’

  ‘He didn’t say who he was meeting. His father gave Steele a few possibles; he’s working his way through them.’

  ‘Let’s hope he finds him quickly then. If not I’ll use the media to ask him to come forward. Meantime, there’s our other close-up witness, Weir’s mate, Wyllie. You haven’t interviewed him yourself, have you?’

  ‘Not personally. That was done before I joined the division.’

  ‘Okay, why don’t you have a talk to him?’ I suggested. ‘Go see him. From what I’ve been told, he’s been a bit evasive about the circumstances leading up to the attack. Maybe press him a bit on that, get as much detail as you can.’

  ‘Will do.’ We’d reached our cars. ‘Let me see your hands,’ she ordered, suddenly. ‘I should know them well enough by now, I suppose, but let’s have a close look.’

  Puzzled, I held them out. She turned them over and examined the palms, running her thumbs over the hard pads of skin left by thousands of golf shots: I’ve never worn a glove when I play. ‘Not too bad,’ she murmured. ‘You shouldn’t have too many blisters come next Monday.’

  ‘Blisters?’

  She grinned. ‘Didn’t I mention that? It’s not a motor yacht, Bob. It’s a schooner, Eden’s pride and joy; sail-powered all the way.’

  ‘Does that mean climbing masts and such?’

  ‘Don’t you worry,’ she assured me, ‘I’ll do all the macho stuff; you’ll just have to pull on the odd rope.’

  ‘What about Alex?’ I asked. ‘What’ll she have to do?’

  ‘Sunbathe, if she’s lucky. Maybe cook, if she fancies it. What’s the matter? Cold feet?’

  Actually, the more I thought about it, the more I fancied the idea. I’d lived by the sea for over ten years, and my place in Spain was near a large marina, full of gin palaces, but as I’d confessed to Alison, messing about in boats wasn’t something I’d even thought about. ‘No,’ I told her. ‘My feet are well warm, don’t you worry. Will there be hammocks?’

  ‘No, dear, there are cabins.’

  It occurred to me as we spoke that I knew much less about Alison’s background than she knew about mine. ‘Your brother,’ I said. ‘Where did he get a name like Eden?’

  ‘It’s been in our family for two hundred years; he was stuck with it.’

  ‘What does he do for a living? No, let me guess; he runs a garden centre.’

  She pursed her lips. ‘Everyone’s a comedian. He is in retail, but not that sector. Ever heard of a chain called Dene Furnishing?’

  Who hadn’t? It was the biggest in Scotland. ‘Sure, big warehouses, aren’t they? All over the place.’

  ‘Yup. That’s him. That’s my bro.’

  I whistled. ‘Jesus! No wonder he can afford a big boat on the Clyde.’

  She nodded. ‘And a spoiled Barbie doll wife who fancies herself as an interior designer. Rachel’s as much use as a chocolate teapot as far as I’m concerned, but Eden th
inks she’s pure fucking Dresden.’

  ‘Will she be there?’ I asked.

  ‘No chance. She only goes on the boat when it’s firmly moored. Honest to God, Bob, Eden’s a real player, a formidable guy, just like you are. Yet he was blinded by this inappropriate woman at first sight. There’s no telling, is there?’

  I chuckled quietly. ‘No, babe, there isn’t. Now, can I do something completely inappropriate?’

  She frowned. ‘Such as?’

  ‘This.’ And I kissed her, long and tender, right there in the car park of the house of the dead.

  ‘Wow!’ she murmured, when we were done. ‘There was nothing inappropriate about that, big boy. But what was it for?’

  ‘It was for reminding me of who I am.’

  I stayed that way for at least a minute. Then I climbed into the Discovery and headed on my steady way home. I hadn’t gone very far, though, before I was feeling completely, utterly confused. I really did not know what the fuck I was doing, woman-wise.

  I had a hot date, probably involving breakfast, with Mia the following night, yet it had been on the tip of my tongue a few minutes before to ask Alison to come home with me. Sensible and secure, redhot and risky, they couldn’t have been more dissimilar, and here was I, a serial widower with a fast-growing daughter who didn’t really want another woman in what she was coming to see as her kitchen, entangled with them both.

  Looking for a distraction, as I cleared the Jock’s Lodge lights, I reached out and switched on the clunky old radio; I’d no other entertainment option, since the cassette player had chewed up a tape and refused to spit it out. I’d had it on Radio One in the morning, to catch a news bulletin. Some rapper with a daft name was shouting at me, so I pressed the next of the preset buttons. The previous owner of the tank had been an orderly man and the six stations were tuned in numerical order, first four BBC, then Radio Forth, then Classic FM. I expected the Radio Two drive-time show, but it wasn’t what I got. Mia must have changed the settings when she’d been in the car on the previous Saturday, because instead of the usual Identikit late afternoon presenter, whoever it was then, whichever of the bland leading the bland, the ridiculous rapper was replaced by what I was coming to realise was one of the sexiest voices I had ever heard.

  ‘So what are you doing this evening, Alex?’ Mia Sparkles asked.

  ‘What?’ I exclaimed.

  ‘Right now?’ my daughter said, her voice slightly distorted by the phone but still recognisable. ‘Finishing some Spanish homework and waiting for my dad to get home. After that, helping him make dinner, then some French homework. Usual stuff, Mia, you know how it is.’

  ‘Yes, I know. My dad was a single parent too, when I was around your age. He was a better cook than me, though. How about yours?’

  ‘My dad’s a very good cook,’ she replied, making me feel as proud as she sounded.

  ‘What’s he best at?’

  ‘He makes amazing spaghetti sauces. There’s one he does with fish.’

  ‘Oooh,’ Mia murmured. ‘He can make me some of that any time he likes. Nice talking to you, Alex. And now all you Airburst kids . . . are you ready for . . . Oasis?’

  I wasn’t; can’t stand them. I switched the radio off.

  ‘Finished your Spanish?’ I asked, as she jumped into the car outside Daisy’s.

  ‘You heard me?’ she squealed.

  ‘Obviously so. How did that happen?’

  ‘Mia asked me on Saturday if I’d like to be on a phone-in.’

  ‘But you didn’t think to tell me?’

  ‘I thought you might be sniffy about it,’ she confessed.

  ‘The only thing I’m sniffy about is you keeping it to yourself,’ I told her. ‘I’m sure that Mia’s got more sense than to let slip any clues about where you live or to say that you’re a cop’s daughter. If I’d known you were on, I’d have heard the whole thing, instead of coming in halfway through it.’

  ‘Sorry, Pops.’

  I reached out and ruffled her hair, as we drew to a halt at home. ‘G’roff,’ she said, grinning and batting my hand away.

  ‘I’ve got another treat for you,’ I told her as we went indoors. ‘Or Alison has, to be accurate. Fancy being a cabin girl? We’re going sailing.’

  Her mouth gaped open. ‘We are? When?’

  As she spoke, I saw the message indicator on the phone, flashing red. ‘Tell you in a minute,’ I said, as she headed for the stairs, and her sanctum, and I pressed the play button. It was a female voice, familiar; Jean, my sister-in-law.

  ‘Bob, phone me please.’ That was all she said; I had the feeling it was all she could say. A spasm of dread ran through me.

  I snatched the handset from the cradle and pressed in her number. Normally she was quick on the draw, but I counted half a dozen rings before she answered. ‘What’s happened?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s Dad,’ she replied. ‘He’s gone.’

  ‘Gone?’ I repeated.

  ‘He’s dead, Bob.’

  I had not expected that. A turn for the worse, perhaps, an admission to hospital ahead of schedule, but no, not that, not Thornie, not so quickly. I was struck dumb. I’d spent part of my afternoon looking at death, in its most graphic state, but I was unprepared for its invasion of my own home. ‘Jean,’ I whispered. ‘It can’t be. He was here only yesterday.’

  ‘And he told you about his illness, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, but he was still active,’ I protested, ‘still on his feet.’

  ‘But very slowly, you must have noticed that, Bob.’

  ‘Yes,’ I conceded, ‘but still . . .’

  ‘I know,’ she said, gently. ‘I didn’t expect it so quickly either. But his consultant did warn me, privately, that things could come to crisis point unpredictably, in a number of ways.’

  ‘How did it happen? How did he . . .’

  ‘I had a call from him on my mobile, around three forty-five, in the office.’ Jean was a hospital manager, in Wishaw. ‘His number showed on my phone but he couldn’t speak. I called his doctor and headed for his house. He got there just before me. He was ringing the bell and getting no answer. I used my key, and we found Dad dead on the kitchen floor.’

  ‘Oh shit,’ I sighed. ‘What a way to go.’

  ‘I know. I can’t get my head round it either, someone so loved, dying alone.’

  ‘Your sister did,’ I reminded her, tactlessly, but I wasn’t thinking straight. ‘You never get your head round it. What did the GP say?’

  ‘There was some blood,’ she told me, and then had to pause.

  I tried to soothe her. ‘It’s okay. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.’

  ‘No, it’s all right. It won’t be undone by not talking about it. The doctor says that he coughed it up, after he had a massive pulmonary haemorrhage. It would all have been over very quickly. He would almost certainly have died wherever he was, at home or in a hospital ward.’ She gave a strange sound; it might have been a snort. ‘You know what? I’m cursing myself for not insisting on driving him through to yours yesterday. This could have happened when he was at the wheel. He could have taken people out with him.’

  ‘But he didn’t,’ I said, ‘so don’t dwell on it. He did what he came to do, and he left contented. Just you focus on that. Now, what do you want me to do? Can I help in any way? Do you want me to come through?’

  ‘No, Bob. There’s nothing to do. He’s been taken to the mortuary, and I’ll see the undertaker in the morning. I’ll let you know when the funeral will be. Are there any dates you’d like me to avoid?’

  ‘That’s thoughtful of you,’ I told her, ‘but don’t you bother about us. We’ll be there, whenever. Are you really sure you’re going to be okay?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, firmly. ‘I won’t be alone, Bob. I have a friend, a man friend that you don’t know about; he’ll be with me.’ So my prophecy to Alex had been right, I mused. ‘Anyway, you’ve got something to do at home. You concentrate on my niece. This will be very ha
rd on Alexis.’

  ‘Indeed,’ I sighed. ‘Keep me informed. So long for now, and again, I am so sorry.’

  I hung up, and turned, slowly, towards the stairs. Alex was sitting on the third step from the bottom, but she stood and came down into the hall. Her face was solemn and, the strangest thing, she seemed a little taller than she’d been before.