Bob Skiinner 21 Grievous Angel

by Quintin Jardine

  Alafair was waiting for us, on the threshold. Any traces of her bruising was covered by make-up, her hair was salon set, and she wore a gold lounge suit that made me think of Hello! magazine. ‘What the hell’s this?’ she snapped. ‘Three this time? Look, I don’t give autographs, okay. Where’s the other young guy? He was nice.’

  ‘This is his day for helping old ladies across the street,’ I replied. ‘Or for taking young ones off it. Invite us in. You need to talk to us.’

  ‘Like hell I do,’ she retorted, ‘but if you insist, come on. Sasha, Pasha, you stay.’ The dogs fell back, obediently.

  The house was the type that estate agents were once fond of describing as ‘architect designed’, all flashy features, but not, at first sight, comfortable. The room into which she led us was enormous: one wall was all glass, a picture window, with doors set in it, that looked up towards the Royal Observatory, and there was an upper level that the sales brochure might have called the ‘Minstrel Gallery’. The furniture was there to be admired rather than for comfort.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked. ‘Why are you hassling me? Have you found the driver yet?’

  ‘There was no driver, Alafair, as you know very well. Now it’s my turn to ask you a question. Has Tony told you about Marlon?’

  ‘Who the hell is Marlon?’

  ‘His driver. A lad about your own age. Solidly built kid, not too smooth, very Edinburgh. I’m guessing he might have picked you up sometimes when you were going to meet Manson. I don’t imagine the Ibiza trip was your only encounter.’

  He tossed her head back. ‘Ah,’ she said, airily, hamming it up like the failed actress she was. ‘That boy. Was that his name? What about him?’

  ‘He’s rather dead, I’m afraid.’

  That wasn’t in the script. ‘What do you mean?’ she exclaimed.

  ‘I mean he’s not breathing any more,’ I snapped. ‘I mean he’s starting to go off. I mean he’s in a box, paid for by Tony for sure, waiting to be put in a hole in the ground. Is there anything about being dead that you don’t understand?’ Out of the corner of my eye I could see Dorothy Shannon flinch, but I was off and running. ‘Your question should have been “How did he die?” Answer, somebody killed him. Next question, “But why, the poor boy?” Answer, because of you!’

  ‘Me?’ she squealed; ex tempore she was lousy.

  ‘Yes, Alafair, you.’ I took my voice back down to normal. ‘This is how it happened. You’d been playing about with Manson for a while, and maybe others but I’m only concerned with him. He asked you to go with him for a week to Ibiza, while your husband was away with his international mates. You agreed, but then you did something fairly stupid . . . the norm for you, I imagine . . . and Derek found out. He didn’t have the nuts to face you about it, so he called your dad, the father-in-law that he thinks is a nice guy, Perry, Mr Holmes.’ The make-up changed shade as the skin beneath it paled.

  ‘He asked him for help, and your dad in turn asked you what you were playing at. You told him it was none of his business. He asked you who you were playing with, you told him, and you probably said there was nothing he could do about it, the poor old quadriplegic cripple.’ I paused.

  ‘Good, you’re not contradicting me. I’ve got it right. Now,’ another pause, ‘here’s what happened next. Your dad can’t move much, but he’s still got a long arm. He reached out, to an old associate in Newcastle, and he hired two men, thugs, brutes, musclemen. They came up to Edinburgh, they got hold of Marlon, and they killed him. I spent some time thinking they were trying to get information from him, but I don’t believe that any more. I reckon they just killed him, pure and simple, to order. You see, Manson himself is too difficult a target, and he might also be too financially important to your dad to be killed. But the word was sent. “Play around with my nearest and dearest and this is what happens to yours.” So act your way out of that one, kid. You indulged yourself, and a boy died. How does it feel, Alafair?’

  She sat down, abruptly, on one of her designer chairs, then reached out for a box on a table, and found a cigarette and a lighter. I took them from her. ‘Not while I’m in the room, please. I detest the habit.’ I did and I always will, but that was a . . . a smokescreen, if you like; at that moment I didn’t want her finding any crumb of comfort.

  ‘What do you want me to say?’ she murmured. ‘Because I won’t. I know whose daughter I am, Mr Skinner.’

  ‘Yes, I thought you might. But know what? There’s another twist. I don’t believe that Derek slapping you around had anything to do with him being attacked. Way I see it, Perry sent Tony a message, and Tony sent him one back. Christ, he told me as much, before I really knew why. Now they’re quits and Manson won’t be lifting your skirts again, lady.’

  ‘Tough,’ she whispered. ‘I won’t be missing much.’

  ‘The story’s not done yet, though,’ I told her. ‘The Newcastle guys were sloppy. They used a traceable van and we got on to them. Your father found out about that. It was a problem for him; if we caught these men, and they talked . . . you can see, can’t you? So he took action, and now they’re dead too. You might not have had a memorable shag with old Tony, but it sure had consequences.’

  She snatched the fag and the Zippo from my hand and lit up. I opened the glass doors.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, tight-lipped, and it wasn’t for the fresh air. ‘I didn’t know any of that, apart from the first bit, about Derek crying to my dad, instead of setting his football team on Tony. But even if it’s true, I won’t help you.’

  ‘Have you always been so fucking self-centred?’ I asked her. ‘You’d be no use to us as a witness. I’m not interested in you, Alafair. It’s your brother I want. Your dad couldn’t have done all that stuff on his own. He can’t even make a phone call unaided any more. In the old days your Uncle Alasdair was his executive arm, so to speak. Now he’s dead. And so’s Johann Kraus, the guy who did the really messy stuff for your father and uncle. So your brother’s had to take everything on himself. I can place him at the murder scene on Tyneside: I know he killed those three guys. I need you to tell me where I can find him now.’

  She shook her head. ‘No chance. Anyway, Hastie’s not like that. He wouldn’t do that. He couldn’t.’

  ‘He couldn’t do what? He’s an ex-soldier; Christ, he’s trained to do that sort of work. Your big brother killed two men in cold blood, close up, and then he found the third and ripped . . .’ And then it hit me. ‘What did you call him?’

  She saw my confusion and knew that she’d made a huge mistake. She realised how, too, and tried to back off from it. ‘Nothing. I said Peter, his name’s Peter.’

  But it was out there. It was in the room. ‘Peter Hastings McGrew, Hastings after your granny. You called him Hastie, because that’s his family name. I’ve met him, I’ve even bloody met him!’ I shouted to the room. ‘He’s hiding in plain sight. He’s your dad’s nurse.’

  She took a huge drag on her cigarette. ‘Okay!’ she screamed. ‘Now go! Fuck off!’

  ‘We’re going, don’t worry, but you’re coming with us. I’m detaining you for formal questioning about a conspiracy to murder. DC Shannon, take Mrs Drysalter out to the car. Cuff her if you have to.’

  She kicked up hell about her dogs. She kicked up hell all the way to Fettes. I arranged for Sasha and Pasha to be taken to the boarding kennels where they’d been housed while she’d been in Ibiza with lover boy, and I gave her a kennel all to herself when we got back to headquarters. I’d had a legitimate excuse for taking her in, but I had no illusions about being able to hold her. I didn’t need to do that anyway; I wanted only to keep her quiet until I could arrange a visit to her father.

  I gathered the team and briefed them. Alf Stein came down to join us after I’d told him what had happened. ‘Who’s normally in the house, other than Holmes and the man you believe is his son?’ the DCS asked.

  ‘Housekeeper, chef and a personal assistant,’ I replied, ‘but they’re background. Then the
re’s the masseur, Vanburn.’

  ‘Is he really a masseur?’

  ‘He’s big enough to be muscle,’ I conceded, ‘but I’d say he’s for real. Holmes genuinely does need specialised care.’ I pointed to Adam. ‘Jeff, your wife’s a nurse, isn’t she? What’s her governing body?’

  ‘The Royal College of Nursing.’

  ‘Then get in touch with them and run the name Vanburn past them. It could be surname or forename, I don’t know which. See if he’s registered with them.’

  Alf frowned. ‘How do you want to play this, Bob?’

  ‘I don’t have time to be subtle, gaffer. I want to put men at the back of the property to block any exit that way and then I plan to drive straight up there, four of us, me, Jeff, Andy and Mario, at speed. But, I’ve been in there, and I can tell you the place has a shit-hot security system. The guys at the back can’t be too close or they’ll trigger movement sensors. So when we’re ready to go in, I want the power cut off.’

  ‘Are you going armed?’ the boss asked.

  ‘We’re after an ex-soldier who’s killed three people,’ I reminded him. ‘I’ll be carrying, and so will Jeff. I’ve seen him on the range.’

  Alf frowned. ‘Do you really want two young unarmed officers with you in that situation?’

  It was a good point; I recognised the hazard. ‘No, sir, you’re right. I don’t want to be looking anywhere but straight ahead.’

  ‘Sensible. In that case, they stay back and I’m coming.’

  I stared at him. ‘With respect, sir,’ I began. ‘I know you’re trained to handle a gun, but can I suggest that you take a look at yourself in a full-length mirror, then turn sideways.’

  DCS Stein peered back at me. ‘Are you saying I’m a fat bastard?’ he murmured.

  ‘Let’s just say you used to be faster on your feet than you are now.’

  He sighed. ‘Aye, you might be right there. I don’t like leading from the back, Bob, that’s all.’ He grinned. ‘I could always go in front and you and DS Adam could hide behind me, then step out and shout “Surprise!” That would make Holmes jump right out of his fucking wheelchair.’

  The laughter broke the tension, and an option occurred. ‘I can pull in Brian Mackie,’ I determined. ‘He’s our top marksman. Any more than three and we’d be in danger of shooting each other.’ I paused. ‘But back to this security camera problem.’

  ‘There’s a problem with cutting off the power,’ Fred Leggat said. ‘It would be tricky to do it selectively. You might wind up cutting off the whole of Lothianburn and Straiton. Even then you couldn’t be sure it would work. A good security system will have back-up power that takes over within a couple of seconds.’

  He was right; even my home alarm had a back-up battery. ‘In that case we’ve got a real difficulty. It’s quite a long way up to Holmes’s house. On my previous visit, judging by the time it must have taken the guy Vanburn to get from what they call the receiving area to the door, and how long it took me to get there, the cameras must have picked me up almost as soon as I’d turned in off the road.’

  ‘So?’ a voice from the doorway broke in. ‘Why don’t you simply drop in on him? Don’t you have a traffic helicopter in this part of the world? Land it right on the guy’s lawn.’

  Six pairs of eyes swung round to look at the intruder. I laughed; Martin smiled. ‘Our friend from the south. Guys, this is DI McFaul, from Newcastle, who thinks he has first claim on our target. Yes, Ciaran, we have a chopper. Are you qualified with a pistol?’ He nodded. ‘In that case your reward for being a clever bugger is that you’ll be on it.’ I looked at Alf. ‘Boss, that rules you out, I’m afraid. We don’t have time to fit extra fuel tanks.’

  For all his bulk, the head of CID could make things happen quickly when all that was needed was a phone. The operation was set up and ready to go in an hour. We’d even sourced a drawing from the local authority planning department showing the layout of the place. There was no rear driveway. That made things simpler: no getaway option. There were woods behind the house, accessible from the adjoining estate, and uniformed officers were on the way there, to cut off any escape route. I still had one logistical problem to solve, though; a personal one. Daisy Mears had an exhibition opening that evening in a gallery in Dunbar, and dinner afterwards with the owner and his wife. I called my fallback, privately.

  ‘Of course,’ Alison said, when I asked her. I didn’t go into detail, or mention firearms; I told her that something had come up and I was committed, that was all. ‘It’s not a problem. I take it that Alex has keys.’

  ‘Yes, she has. And she knows the alarm combination.’ Something came into my head, and I released it. ‘You should have a set too. In fact, when you go out, why don’t you take a suitcase and leave some clothes in the wardrobe. It’ll make it easier.’

  She laughed, softly. ‘And a toothbrush in your jar?’

  ‘That too. You can even use my toothpaste.’

  ‘As long as it has stripes. When can I expect you?’

  ‘Dunno. I’ll let you know when I’m on the way home.’

  ‘Do that. Good luck with whatever it is, and take some good news with you. Things have moved on in my, your other, investigation. You won’t have to go in that helicopter after all.’

  That’s what you think, I whispered, just as I hung up.

  Seventeen

  ‘Go on then,’ Alison demanded. ‘You’ve eaten, and you’ve nearly finished your second bottle of red. Are you going to tell us what happened, while you still can?’

  ‘Yes, Pops,’ Alex chipped in, ‘we’ve been patient for long enough.’

  ‘Out of deference to our guest,’ I reminded her.

  DI McFaul was staying over. I’d offered him the use of our spare room, and he’d accepted. A night alone in a hotel room would have been unthinkable. We were both high. It had nothing to do with the Tempranillo either; we were flying on natural fuel, high-octane adrenalin. We’d made it home just after nine and killed the first bottle before we’d even sat down to eat.

  ‘Let me tell the story,’ Ciaran said. ‘I saw the whole thing; Bob missed the first part.’

  I held up a hand to pause him, and checked my watch at the same time: ten past ten. Before I’d opened my mouth, my daughter was on me. ‘Pops,’ she warned, ‘if you say, “Time for bed, young lady,” there will be war.’

  I gave in. ‘One’s enough for today; go on, Ciaran.’

  ‘Good.’ He looked around the table. ‘Are we sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin. So there we are in this chopper . . .’

  ‘What?’ Alison exclaimed.

  ‘This helicopter.’

  ‘They got him in a helicopter?’ she gasped.

  ‘It was only a wee one,’ I pointed out, ‘and it wasn’t going very far. Ciaran, don’t be put off by heckling.’

  ‘I love it when you’re merry,’ Alex laughed.

  ‘So there we are,’ the Geordie resumed, beaming at her, ‘in this chopper, coming down in the man’s driveway like Robert Duvall in Apocalypse Now . . . hinnie, all we needed was to be playing “Ride of the Valkyries” through speakers. We land and the three of us, me, Bob and Jeff Adam, jump out. Your dad goes round the side of the house and the two of us head for the front door. Jeff’s got this ram, battering ram, enormously heavy; he can hardly lift it. He hits the door with it. Normally one tap and we’re in but this just goes “Boing!” and bounces off, because the door’s made out of steel. Remember this, pet, and it’ll see you through life: people with steel front doors invariably have something to hide.’ He was pushing it with the “pet”, but Alex was too engaged to protest.

  ‘So he gives it another thump, and still it doesn’t budge. Finally on the third swing it does give, but the ram rebounds again and Jeff lets it slip. Thud! It lands on his foot. And did he scream? Did he ever! Like a Sunderland striker when he gets tackled. They think he’s broken a couple of bones. So there we are, this amateur FART team . . .’

  ‘What?’ Alex’s eyes b
ulged.

  ‘It’s a Tyneside nickname, pet, Fast Action Response Team, except they’re not really called that. Anyway, there we are, one of us hopping about on one leg and the other a stranger in town. Not an auspicious start.’

  ‘What happened after that?’

  ‘Ach, by the time I got to where I was supposed to be your dad had arrested the guy; show over.’

  I reached across and touched my daughter’s hand. ‘And with that, love . . .’