Private Investigations (4 page)

Five

Yes, there is indeed history between Eden Higgins and me. It stretches back twenty years or so, to the days when I was the newly promoted Detective Superintendent Skinner, heading up Edinburgh’s Serious Crimes Unit, to the years when I was a single parent, widowed and doing my best to raise my adolescent daughter Alexis on my own.

That said, I wasn’t always alone: between Myra’s death and my meeting Sarah, my second wife, there were a few ladies in my life, and of those the most serious was Alison Higgins. She was a cop like me, a detective sergeant, then detective inspector, and she matched me in most ways, not least in ambition.

We were a natural couple; we liked each other, we were good together, vertically and horizontally, and our tastes were similar. Alex approved of her too; that was a prerequisite of any relationship, and Alison passed that test from the start. Although we never formally lived together, she was the only woman who had clothes hanging in my wardrobe, and whose toothbrush stood alongside mine in the mug, until Sarah came into my life.

She didn’t talk about her family much, not at the beginning. Looking back, I recognise that may have been because in those days, I never talked about mine. I was still hurting too much over Myra, and my childhood was an absolute no-go area. Thus, it was a complete surprise when she invited Alex and me to go sailing with her one weekend, on her brother’s yacht.

Anyone who watched commercial television in those days had to be aware of Dene Furnishing; it was one of the nation’s biggest retailers, with a huge turnover and an advertising budget to match. When Myra and I set up house as a very young couple, most of our furniture came from its Bathgate store; indeed, I still have some of it.

I knew all about Dene, but I had no idea that it was owned and had been built, from the ground up, by Eden Higgins, Alison’s older brother. She’d mentioned him to me, but only vaguely. On the other hand, he knew all about me. Once we met, on board his schooner, it didn’t take me long to realise that he’d had me checked out.

I didn’t hold that against him. He was a very wealthy man, and if he was on his guard against fortune hunters, it was understandable. Indeed, I felt the same way: Alex was my fortune and I knew that in a few years’ time I’d be vetting her potential suitors. (Not very effectively, as it transpired.)

That sailing weekend was a landmark event in my life, but it was never repeated. The offer of another trip was made, more than once, but conflicting diaries, or weather, contrived to ensure that I never returned to the
Palacio de Ginebra
, Eden’s casually named
Gin Palace
.

The vessel didn’t live up, or maybe down, to its name; it was a sleek, speedy, no-frills racing yacht, and when we berthed in the Inverkip marina, after our cruise to Campbeltown, I had a couple of blisters to prove that I wasn’t as hard handed as I’d believed.

Eden and I met up again at a few social events over the next couple of years, until Alison decided that being with me was a hindrance to her career. Jimmy Proud, our chief constable, knew of our relationship; he had always kept us apart professionally, and Alison came to believe that had ruled her out of the running for a couple of jobs she’d fancied. She may have been right . . . honestly, I do not know, and there’s no point in asking Jimmy now . . . but in any event, the truth was that our thing had run out of steam by then.

The split was easy and amicable, not least because we’d never moved in together. Afterwards, when she did come into my police orbit, we kept it formal . . . at her insistence, not mine, for I was never precious about rank. At work I was ‘Sir’ to her, and she was ‘Inspector’ to me, then ‘Chief Inspector’ and finally ‘Superintendent’.

She might have become ‘Ma’am’, if she’d lived, if she hadn’t been killed by a car bomb that was meant for someone else.

The last time I’d seen Eden, before our reunion on the Mound, had been at Alison’s funeral. We shook hands at the door of the church after the service. All I could say was, ‘So sorry, mate.’ He nodded briefly, but that was all; his silence may have been because Sarah was with me, or quite simply because he was so choked up that he couldn’t speak.

We didn’t stay in touch after that, but that didn’t prevent me from shopping in Dene Furnishings, or from noticing when Eden sold the business for many millions, to focus on the venture capital involvement that had been a sideline for a few years.

His career was very easy to follow from then on; if he ever put a foot wrong in business, it never made the press, but every success, and there were plenty of them, made headlines.

My progression was high profile too, but boy, how I wish my judgement had been as good as his.

‘How can you know that?’ he asked me, after I’d had my revelation.

‘I saw it, a few months ago: I was in L’Escala, in Spain, where I have a house.’

He nodded. ‘I remember. You took my sister there.’

Eden was right; his memory was better than mine, for I’d filed that fact at the back of the mental drawer. I don’t believe that I ever loved Alison, or that she loved me, but as I’ve said, I liked her, more than any woman I’ve ever been with, apart from Sarah, and her death hurt me more deeply than I let anyone see at the time.

‘Yeah,’ I murmured, as another recollection came to me. ‘She didn’t like it in the summer. She said it was too hot for her. But she, Alex and I spent a Christmas there; she enjoyed that.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘She told me so. Then less than a year later, she told me she’d decided it was you or her career, and her career won.’

‘What she told me,’ I replied, ‘was that she’d make a better chief constable than a wife, and that since she didn’t believe she could be both, we’d better pack it in.’

‘Did you try to talk her round?’ he asked.

‘No, I didn’t,’ I admitted, ‘because I felt exactly the same way about myself. I was a lousy husband while I was a cop, Eden. A couple of ladies would tell you that. Now I’m out of it, I find that I’m enjoying domesticity more than I ever have before.’

He paused. ‘In that case, am I wrong to be bringing this situation to you?’

‘Not at all,’ I insisted. ‘You’re a friend. Also, the chances are that anything I can do will be advisory, no more. Now, back to the matter in hand. Last autumn, in L’Escala, I was in the marina, and I saw the
Palacio de Ginebra
in a mooring there. I didn’t believe it at first, thought my mind was going, but I went back and checked and, for sure, it was your boat. So, it looks like we have a starting point.’

He thwarted my triumph with a few words. ‘No, Bob, I’m afraid we don’t. I sold the schooner years ago, to a pop star looking for a hobby. It had too much of Alison about it. The truth is that she was always a more enthusiastic sailor than I was. Rachel, my wife, has her own sports; she skis and she was an international bi-athlete in her youth, but unfortunately she gets seasick in the bath. As for our boy, Rory decided that go-karting was his sport of choice.

‘So I got rid of the working boat, and bought something more suited to a gentleman of means.’ He grinned. ‘It’s a seventy-five-foot motor yacht, and I named her the
Princess Alison
. I use it more for business entertainment than for my own pleasure.’ His smile vanished. ‘Or I did, until it was taken.’

He was interrupted, by a rap on the door. It opened, and Eden’s secretary, a tall late-thirties brunette, who had introduced herself as Luisa McCracken when I arrived, advised us that lunch was ready.

My host led me through to his dining room. The table was large enough to hold a dozen, but there were only four places set. One of them was occupied by a young man; I recognised him from times past. He’d been a child, but even then he’d had his father’s high forehead, and his aunt’s sky-blue eyes.

His mother sat opposite him. I’d seen Rachel Higgins before, at a couple of those social events, but Alison had never introduced us. She’d never been close to her sister-in-law, and she’d made a point of keeping us apart.

Rory stood as we entered, extending a hand. ‘Mr Skinner,’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s good to see you again.’

Higgins Junior was as tall as me, and had a firm handshake. ‘And you,’ I replied. ‘You work with your dad now?’ I asked.

‘He’s my eyes and ears,’ Eden said. ‘I have a majority shareholding in more than twenty companies in several business sectors: retail, information technology, housing and light engineering, principally. I’m on the board of every one of them, and chairman of eight, but I don’t get involved on a hands-on basis if I can avoid it. Rory’s a chartered accountant by profession; he’s employed by the holding company as a sort of travelling auditor. Each subsidiary’s management accounts come to him. If he sees something that needs attention, he points it out to the CEO of the company in question. If he felt that it really,’ he underlined the word, ‘needed attention he would bring it to me. But that’s never happened.’

He smiled. ‘Mind you,’ he added, ‘he’s learning the hard way. I can’t have him seen as the boss’s son throwing his weight around. He isn’t on any of the boards, subsidiary or parent company, he has no executive authority, and he’s paid the going rate for the job, reflecting his responsibility and experience.’

‘Nevertheless, that’s a pretty responsible job,’ I commented. ‘I hope it pays for your karting, Rory.’

He laughed. ‘It wouldn’t, but that’s a thing of the past. When I started I saw myself as a Formula One driver, but that dream died young, when I kept on growing past five feet nine, and my weight went past seventy-five kilos. Now I play tennis and golf.’

‘Where did you complete your CA qualification?’ I asked.

He replied with a set of initials that I recognised as one of the big three firms. ‘I got my practising certificate when I was twenty-three,’ he said, ‘and worked there for three years, until I joined Dad two years ago. Higgins Holdings isn’t the most glamorous name for a company, but it’s a challenging job.’

His answer told me that I’d been right in my calculation of his age. He’d been ten when we’d all gone sailing. Alex was there too; she was into her teens, and so she’d barely noticed him.
She would now
, I thought. He’d turned into a good-looking guy.

‘Rachel,’ Eden exclaimed, breaking into my thoughts, ‘finally, this is the man you always said you wanted to meet. I don’t know why it never happened, back in the old days.’

She smiled up at me. ‘I do,’ she murmured. ‘Your sister was afraid I might be competition.’

Pretty brazen
, I thought,
to say that to her husband
. I grinned back at her, hoping that she couldn’t read the truth in my eyes.

And that was, I wouldn’t have fancied her in a hundred years, not because she was physically unattractive . . . which she wasn’t . . . but because she had an unfortunate habit of looking at people as if she was appraising them, and making an instant assessment of their worth. I really hate that, and so did Alison. That was the real reason for her keeping a distance between Rachel and me.

However I was her husband’s guest that lunchtime, so I shook her hand, doing my best to avoid a large emerald and diamond ring, gave her the full Skinner smile, and replied, ‘The only competition Alison ever saw was the job, and ultimately she was right.’

Eden had hired caterers. A little extravagant, I thought, when we could have walked a couple of hundred yards to Ondine, or the Witchery, but if that’s what really rich folk do, then who was I to object?

We talked our way through lunch, mostly about our careers and how they had developed. ‘I never thought you’d chuck it,’ Eden said, brow wrinkled with the effort of cracking a lobster claw.

‘Three years ago, I’d have agreed with that,’ I conceded, ‘before all this unification crap came above the horizon. Now I look at my life, and every day I thank the First Minister for not giving in to my insistence that he was a crazy man in pushing ahead with the venture that the politicians, probably on the advice of their PR people, have decided to rename ScotServe.’

‘You thank him?’ Rachel repeated. ‘So you agree with the single force now?’

‘Hell no!’ I retorted. ‘It gave me the impetus to get out, that’s what I’m saying.’

‘There must be some good about it, surely,’ she protested.

‘Okay,’ I conceded, ‘there is some good, but not a hell of a lot. The new one-zero-one phone number for non-urgent reports and inquiries, that’s okay, but it’s general.

‘As for the rest,’ I continued, ‘the detachment of much of the force from its senior management, the problem of the distant communities being policed by a man who’s never set foot in those places, that’s a disaster waiting to happen, Rachel. Andy Martin knows little or nothing about places like Dingwall. I know little or nothing about Dingwall. Only the locals know all the twists and nuances of their community. If you have a serious crime there, the people who fly in to deal with it, they’ll be looked on as an invading army. The same is true of any of the islands and much of the northern mainland.’

‘How about morale?’ Eden asked. ‘I have to say the woman who came to tell me that they’ve given up on my boat . . .’

He’d started me thinking about team spirit, and Sammy Pye’s last words to me as I’d left Fort Kinnaird. When he mentioned ‘woman’ I held up a hand. ‘Name?’

‘Chief Superintendent Chambers,’ Rory volunteered. ‘A big bluff woman.’

I smiled, for I couldn’t quarrel with that description.

‘How can I put this?’ Eden continued. ‘She didn’t seem one hundred per cent committed to the message she was delivering. That’s all she was of course, a delivery person. The investigation into the theft started off as a Strathclyde matter, when you were chief. Now ScotServe’s kicked it into touch. It was quite clear that Ms Chambers wasn’t a party to the decision, yet she was the one who had to communicate it. Would that have happened under the old system, Bob?’

‘No,’ I admitted. ‘Don’t blame Mary, for she’s a good cop. If I was still in post and I’d known about it, I’d have told you myself. But it would have been out of friendship, that’s all.’

His eyebrows rose. ‘And you’d have given me the same message, that the
Princess Alison
was gone for good?’