Bob Skiinner 21 Grievous Angel (10 page)

‘No, sir,’ Reid protested. ‘We did what you told us, we asked around. We got nothing. Nobody’s heard anything about new feet on the ground, no new drug dealers, no new hookers on the streets.’

‘Who did you ask?’

‘Informants,’ Macken drawled.

‘What the hell does that mean?’

‘Guys we know. Dealers we’ve lifted; users we’ve spotted. Hoors.’

‘Street level? Druggies and prostitutes?’

‘Aye.’

‘Aye?’ I shouted. ‘Would that be as in “Yes, sir”?’

‘Aw, fuck.’

I jumped out of my chair, walked round my desk and got right in his face. He was reeking of beer, and scraps of food clung to his teeth. ‘You are an idiot,’ I told him. ‘I told you to talk to known associates. Folk like that have never even seen Tony Manson,’ I shouted. ‘He hasn’t been on the fucking street for years. Your so-called informants . . . if they exist . . . don’t have a clue about his world or what happens in it. They only find out about it afterwards, once it has happened. You’re experienced officers, on a specialist unit; you’re required to know that.’ I kept my eyes on him, quelling his belligerence, leaning in ever closer until he took a couple of steps backwards.

‘Keep on going,’ I snapped, ‘out to your desk. Clear it, go home, and don’t come back here. I could suspend you for drinking on duty, Macken, but I can’t be arsed with the paperwork that would entail. It would distract me, and quite frankly you’re not worth it. You are finished in CID. On Monday morning, you’ll be told where you’ll be working. Wherever it is, you’ll be in uniform for the rest of your police career. Now go!’

As I spoke, I hoped that he’d take a swing at me, but he wasn’t quite that stupid. He turned, stumbling slightly, and left. I’d have to square his transfer with Alf, and he’d probably have to route it through the ACC. Placing him wouldn’t be easy; being booted off Serious Crimes and out of CID as well hung a sign round your neck as visible as a rotting albatross. Wherever he went, my bet was that he wouldn’t last a month before handing in his warrant card.

‘You’re out as well,’ I told Reid, ‘but I’ll get you a move within CID.’ I knew where he’d go too. Greg Jay was running short-handed at St Leonards. ‘You can go home now too.’

I hadn’t wanted to end my first day with an axe in my hand and blood on the floor, but some things have to be done. I could have handled it more gently, but I’d been provoked by that waste of a chair Macken. I waited until they’d both left before rejoining the rest of the team. ‘I’m sorry you had to witness that,’ I told them, ‘but I believe in the job, and I can’t stand people who just don’t give a fuck.’

I glanced at the clock. It was ten to five. ‘It’s Friday night, but this is a murder investigation. Brian, Stevie, you’ve got your weekend mapped out for you. Fred, Jeff . . .’ as I spoke, the door opened and McGuire came back into the room, ‘. . . and you, Mario, I want you to be ready to follow up any responses from the press appeal for information. Go back to Marlon’s street. Don’t blow the guys’ cover but talk to Bella again and see if you can get anything out of her about her son, where he drank, who his pals were. Ask the neighbours as well. Jeff, see if you can find that boy Clyde; he and his team are the eyes and ears of the place. If you have to slip them a tenner for information, do it, but not where anyone can see you. Andy, I want you here tomorrow morning, ten o’clock, Saturday or not. You and I are going to talk to a couple of the people that Macken and Reid didn’t know.’

Eight

T
here was one of those, one of Manson’s ‘known associates’, that I had to see on my own. I knew that if I turned up as one half of the traditional CID twosome, he would give me the time of day, politely, as much as he ever gave anyone, unless he poured them a drink or his boss told him to be less than courteous.

When I left for home, I took a different route from usual, down Leith Walk. Near the foot, I parked in an empty space, and crossed the road. My destination was a pub; it was called the Milton Vaults and it was owned by a company whose sole shareholder was Tony Manson. Once upon a time, its clientele had been so wild that the place was known locally as the War Office, but those days were over. They had ended when Manson had installed a new manager with instructions to clean things up.

He was behind the bar, with two of his staff, when I walked in. He registered my arrival before the door had swung behind me, and nodded a greeting. It was five fifteen, the weekend had started, and it was busy; the customers were all regulars, for they stood in groups, drinking and talking. Every one of them was male. Tradition died hard in that part of the city. I made my way to the far corner of the bar, drawing the occasional look, but ignoring them all. ‘How’re you doing?’ I said.

His name was Lennie Plenderleith, and his height was a matter of debate. He was either six feet seven, six feet eight, or six feet nine, by varying accounts, but one thing was not in dispute: he was built like a whole row of brick shithouses. He had been a gang leader in Newhaven in his youth, not that he had needed the gang. He’d picked up the usual string of convictions, until finally he had come to the attention of Manson. He’d gone to work for him and had been clear of arrests for almost ten years.

That was not to say he had become a pacifist, no way. His boss was a very powerful figure within the city, but every so often someone made the mistake of crossing him. Soon afterwards, the transgressor would be admitted to the Royal Infirmary. We knew pretty much for certain that Lennie had driven the ambulance, figuratively, but none of the patients ever said a word about their misfortune.

‘Fine, thanks. What can I get you, Mr Skinner?’ he asked. His voice was quiet. People like him don’t need to be loud; their very presence commands attention.

‘I’ll just have a Coke, thanks, Lennie.’ I shoved a couple of pound coins across the bar as he filled a glass from a nozzle, but he pushed them back as he laid the glass in front of me.

‘Have you had the radio on this afternoon?’ I asked.

He nodded. ‘I know what you’re talking about. Marlon Watson, yes?’

‘Got it in one.’

‘I need to talk to his boss, to eliminate him from our inquiries, so to speak. He doesn’t seem to be around.’

‘That’s self-evident. If he’d been around, nothing would have happened to Marlon.’

‘So they hadn’t fallen out?’

Lennie managed to frown and smile at the same time. ‘No chance. Marlon wasn’t the sort of lad to fall out with people. Besides . . .’

‘Tony shags his mother?’

The smile widened. ‘Among others,’ he said.

‘Do you know where he is, Lennie?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you going to tell me?’

He shrugged. ‘Why not? He’s in the Gran Hotel, in Ibiza Town.’

‘Not on his own, I assume.’

‘No. He’s got a woman with him. They’re away for a week. I can’t give you a name, though, Mr Skinner.’

‘Not even if I insisted?’ I ventured; not that I planned to.

‘No, because I don’t know it.’

‘Marlon told his mother he was going to Newcastle.’

‘He flew from there. But Marlon didn’t even know that. He drove him to Newcastle Station on Sunday morning, and dropped him off. As I understand it, the bird went down on the train and met him there.’

‘I imagine Tony didn’t want Bella to know,’ I said.

‘Not just her,’ Lennie chuckled. ‘He didn’t want anybody to know. Look, he likes Bella . . .’

I was sceptical. ‘She told me she works in his saunas. That’s hardly a sign of his affection.’

‘She might have let you think so, but she doesn’t in the way you mean. He uses her as a sort of inspector. She’ll drop in unannounced, to make sure that the places are being run okay. She takes no shit, and he likes her for it.’

‘How’s he going to take Marlon’s death?’ I asked the giant.

‘How do you think? Badly, very badly.’

‘In that case, Lennie,’ I told him, ‘no offence, but we’ll be watching you for a bit.’

He shrugged again, massively, shoulder-rippling. ‘No offence taken, but you’ll be wasting your time.’

I raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes?’

‘Yes. Work it out for yourself.’

I let the comment lie. ‘We do need to talk to Tony,’ I repeated.

He sighed. ‘I know; but you’ll need to wait till Sunday. He’s due back then. Marlon was supposed to pick him up; from the station again. You could fly out to Ibiza, of course, but I’d have to warn him, so that would be a waste of time too. He’d be gone.’

Plenderleith was nothing if not honest. ‘Okay,’ I conceded. ‘I know you’re going to call him anyway to let him know about Marlon. So, when you do, tell him I’ll be at his place first thing on Monday morning, and I won’t be pleased if he’s not there.’

‘I’m sure he will be, Mr Skinner.’

I finished my ersatz Coke and left. More punters had come in while I’d been talking to Lennie, and more of them studied me as I made my way to the door than had done when I’d arrived. They were the ones who’d made me as a cop; I stared them down so they’d remember me, and recognised a couple as I did so.

As I pulled out into traffic, I was wondering about the big guy. He was closer to Tony Manson than I’d realised, trusted with the secret of his Ibiza tryst, and to know what Bella Watson really did for him. I’d worked out straight away why it would be a waste of time keeping tabs on him as a way to the guys who’d killed Marlon. When Lennie passed on a message from the boss, the recipient always walked away . . . eventually. He was telling me that those two were dead men, and that he wasn’t given that sort of task.

Even as I cruised along Salamander Street, I knew that he would have called Manson by then, and that if he had the faintest idea of who the torturers were, or of who had hired them, then things were liable to happen fast, and I had to keep pace. Of course I did have another option. Shut up and do nothing: stand back, let rough justice be meted out and pick up the leavings afterwards. Sure, and then we might wind up with an all-out gang war on our hands, the sort of mess in which innocent bystanders can get hurt.

I pulled off Seafield Road into the forecourt of a car showroom and called Alf Stein, mobile to mobile. I brought him up to date with the investigation, as it stood, and told him what my team was doing. ‘I should have known,’ he sighed. ‘I move you to Serious Crimes and they get really fuckin’ serious. Press, Bob, press, until something cracks; that’s all you can do. Do you need any more manpower?’

‘For the moment, no. I like what I have. By the way, I’ve addressed the Macken and Reid problem. I’ll send you a memo for the record, but I’ve booted them.’

‘Good grounds?’ he murmured.

‘They’ll hold up.’

‘Okay, I’ll deal with it.’

‘Macken’s got to go from CID, completely,’ I added.

‘I get the picture. Shitty job in uniform.’

I headed back to Gullane. I picked up some stuff in ASDA and made it home by six forty, later than usual, but not enough to start Daisy fretting. ‘Alex is excited,’ she told me, as she put a sketch pad into her bag.

‘Why?’

‘Let her tell you. She’s in her kingdom.’ I’d guessed that; I could hear the radio.

I went upstairs to the attic as soon as Daisy had left, and knocked on her door. ‘Clear!’ she called, her way of saying ‘Come in’. She had a school pal with her, a lass called Susie something, whose dad was in PR, and whose mother taught in another village school along the coast.

‘What’s the story?’ I asked.

‘Didn’t Daisy tell you?’ She had her impressionable child face on, the one I didn’t see too much of any more, and her eyes were gleaming. ‘I had a dedication on Airburst. Mia Sparkles played a song for me. “Wonderwall”. Did you ask her to?’

‘No, it never occurred to me. That was off her own bat.’

‘What’s she like, Mr Skinner?’ Susie bubbled.

It was on the tip of my tongue to say that she was one of the most attractive women I’d met in a long time with a body that not even a radio station T-shirt could disguise, but I cut that down to, ‘She’s very nice. Alex,’ I told my daughter. ‘We’re having company for dinner.’

‘Same as last night?’ She’d become a bold adolescent in an instant.

‘Same. She’ll be here soon.’

Susie took her cue. She looked at the clock and exclaimed, ‘Gosh, is it that time?’ and jumped to her feet. I led the way downstairs and went into the kitchen while Alex walked her to the door.

‘What’s for dinner?’ she asked.

‘Smoked salmon, fillet steak and salad, then ice cream.’ Typical menu for a single man when entertaining.

‘Can I cook the steak on the George Foreman grill?’

‘No way. You might burn yourself, then the cruelty people would be after me.’

‘There’s more chance of you doing that.’

She had a point. ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘but remember to ask Alison how she wants hers done.’

I’d laid the smoked salmon on plates and was slicing Chinese leaves for the salad when the bell sounded. Alex beat me there. ‘Hi, Alison,’ she said, as she opened the door, like someone greeting a peer, not someone who was eighteen years older than her. ‘Nice to see you again.’

‘And you. Sorry I’m a bit late,’ she added, looking towards me, at the back of the hall. ‘There was more traffic than I expected.’ She had a small bag in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. She held it up. ‘I brought this. Is it okay?’ It was Spanish; Sangre de Toro, by Torres. I’d bought a couple of the same in ASDA.
She knows me
, I thought.

‘Perfect. Ideal for what we’re having.’ I kissed her, chastely, took both from her, dropped her bag in my bedroom and went back to the kitchen. Alison came with me, leaving Alex to switch on the television.

I offered her a beer, while I finished assembling the salad. ‘Help yourself if you want one,’ I said. ‘They’re in the fridge.’

‘Can we go for a walk?’ she asked. ‘It’s a lovely night.’

She was right. Through the window I could see my back garden flooded with evening sunshine. ‘Why not?’ I said. ‘We’ll need to take Her Ladyship, though.’

‘Will she mind?’

She didn’t. She was so intrigued by Alison and by the possibilities of a relationship that if I’d said, ‘Get your jacket, we’re all going to the dentist,’ she’d have followed without a murmur. We walked the short distance to Gullane Bents, then, instead of going down on to the beach, took the path that runs along the fringe of the golf course, then climbs up to the summit of Gullane Hill. I’d brought a pair of binoculars, so that Alison could enjoy the view properly, a panorama stretching from Berwick Law, along the Fife coast, to Edinburgh, the Forth bridges and the distant Trossachs beyond.