Skinner's Rules (21 page)

‘That’s the good news. Now here’s something that you’re not going to like. Kenny Duff found definite signs of entry at each flat. There were indications that they had been searched, and one or two small items had been taken.’

‘So what did he do?’

‘Reported it to Gayfield, and explained the circumstances.’

Skinner’s face darkened. ‘And what did they do?’

Martin looked at him. ‘They visited each locus with Mr Duff, dusted the doors for fingerprints, didn’t find any, took notes, and filed them.’

‘They had the names?’ Skinner’s voice had a cutting edge. Martin nodded. ‘And they did sweet fuck all?’ Martin nodded again.

Skinner turned, picked up Martin’s telephone and dialled his own extension number. ‘Brian, I want the names of the CID officers who attended reported break-ins at...’ he looked at the note Martin handed to him and read out the addresses,‘ ... on December the ninth, and I want them on my carpet on Monday morning. And tell them to come in their best uniforms.’

He slammed down the telephone. ‘Let them sweat it out for a couple of days.’

His anger, as usual, went quickly. ‘What about keys? Will we need warrants?’

‘The keys are all safe and sound at Curle, Anthony and Jarvis. Kenny Duff will let us have them tomorrow. And there’s no question of warrants, even as a formality. He’s being very co-operative.’

‘That’s good. What did you tell him?’

‘A version of the truth. That our enquiries are continuing and that we need to look through personal papers to pursue them.’

‘Right. Stand down the people for today. We’ll meet here at nine-thirty tomorrow morning. Now I’m off to make it up with my fiancée, and to explain why her Sunday’s going the same way as her Saturday!’

The team was assembled in Skinner’s outer office and ready for briefing when he arrived, one minute before 9.30 a.m. Martin, Mackie and Maggie Rose had been joined by two Special Branch detectives, and a young woman in uniform, whom he had not seen before.

The squad stood to attention until Skinner motioned them to sit. Martin began the introductions. ‘Maggie you know, boss. You may also recall these two, DCs McGuire and Mcllhenney.’

He introduced the uniformed girl. ‘You probably won’t have met WPC Aileen Stimson, sir. Aileen is fairly new on the force, but I chose her for two reasons. One, her station inspector gave her as good a report as I’ve ever heard, and two, she has a law degree.’

Skinner nodded to the girl, then rose to his feet. ‘Thank you, Chief Inspector.

‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Those of you who are not already in the know will undoubtedly be wondering what can have led me to assemble a squad like this, with such urgency, and on a Sunday morning. Let me tell you.

‘We have reason to believe that there may be a link between the deaths of Michael Mortimer, an advocate, and the first of the Royal Mile victims, and his girlfriend Rachel Jameson, also an advocate, who went under a train in Glasgow, just a few days after Mortimer’s murder. Our friends in the Crown Office insist that she jumped. I don’t believe that. I’m damn sure she was pushed.

‘We know that whoever killed Mortimer did the other three Royal Mile jobs. For a while, that led us down a false trail, and eventually to a certain deranged individual, with a strong revenge motive. Some of you know that much already. But recently, we found evidence that Mortimer’s briefcase had been tampered with after his death, and that Jameson’s had been stolen from the scene of her murder. Now, to top that, we have discovered that the flats of both victims have been entered and searched.

‘So it looks as if the killer was after something from Mortimer and Jameson. We have to find out what that was. Once we know that, we should know why they were killed. From there it should be a short step to whoever did it.

‘Between us, we are going to cover every inch of the personal and professional lives of Michael Mortimer and Rachel Jameson. We will go through their papers looking for anything that is at all odd or out of place-I can’t give you a more detailed brief, but you’re all bright people. You’ll know it when you see it. Chief Inspector Martin will allocate duties.’

He sat down.

Martin stood up and faced the team. ‘Thank you, Mr Skinner. On this operation there will be three search locations, and you will divide into three search units.

‘DI Mackie and DC Mcllhenney will examine all of the papers and effects in Mortimer’s flat. DS Rose and DC McGuire will search Miss Jameson’s place.’ His eyes swung towards the uniformed girl. ‘You, Miss Stimson, will be based at the Advocates’ Library, going over yet again all of the instructions with which the two victims have been involved over the last eighteen months. I’ve placed you there on your own. We have already been through these papers, and so, frankly, I don’t expect to find anything. But we must go back one more time. This is a discreet operation, and if you’re alone, we can give you the cover of a research fellow. With your legal background, you’ll be able to talk to the advocates without attracting suspicion.’

He turned to Skinner. ‘I’ve agreed this with Peter Cowan, boss.’ The ACC nodded his approval. ‘Aileen, your reward is that you can have the rest of the day off. But meet me here tomorrow morning at 8.15 sharp, in suitable civilian clothes. That means sober dress; nothing that will raise the blood pressure of any passing judges!

‘The rest of us will start now. Brian, Maggie, here are the keys. The addresses are on the labels.’

He threw keys on rings to Mackie and Rose. Each key ring was weighted by a Dundas & Wilson card, encased in plastic. Each card bore the practice logo and an address.

‘While you are picking your way through the paper, the boss and I will be digging into the past of both victims, looking for skeletons in their cupboards.’

Martin finished and sat down, returning the floor to Skinner.

‘One last word, although it’s a long one for you lot. Confidentiality. Outside of this room, no one, apart from Peter Cowan at the Faculty of Advocates, knows the full nature of this enquiry. So if word leaks out, I’ll know where to look. So no discussion, even among yourselves in the pub. Keep it tight.’

He looked around the circle of faces before him. ‘Any questions?’

No one spoke or moved.

‘Right, let’s go to work.’

Skinner sank into his swivel chair, swung his feet up on to the desk, picked up the telephone and punched in the 041- number which Martin had written out for him.

After a short delay, the call was answered by a man, a man with an old, tired voice. ‘Hello, Jimmy Mortimer.’ The tones were gruff, the accent broad Clydebank.

Skinner introduced himself and explained the purpose of his call.

Jimmy Mortimer grunted. ‘Hm. Yis still don’t hiv a bliddy clue, hiv yis?’

‘We have lines of enquiry to follow, Mr Mortimer, and one requires that we talk to your son’s friends, all the way back to his schooldays. So if you can help me, I’d be grateful.’

‘Look, mister, ma son’s new friends wis all lawyers, and he didnae even have much time for them once he took up wi’ yon poor lassie. Round boot here, when he wis a laddie, his best pal was Johnny Smiley. Nice lad. Always aboot the hoose. He’s a teacher noo; works in Port Glesca High, ah think. Oor Michael said he wis livin’ in Langbank. Is that ony guid tae yis?’

‘It’ll do for a start, Mr Mortimer. Thank you very much.’

Skinner clicked the line dead and called up the switchboard operator. ‘ACC Skinner here, Olive. I’d like you to do a bit of detective work for me. I want to speak to a Mr John Smiley, he’s a teacher, and he lives in Langbank, Renfrewshire, but I don’t have an address for him. He is, or rather was, a friend of a Mr Michael Mortimer. See if you can find him for me, please.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said the crisp clear voice at the other end of the line. ‘How are you spelling that name?’

‘Good question. Try S-M-I-L-E-Y or S-M-I-L-L-I-E. No, wait a minute. It’s the West of Scotland; first try S-M-E-L-L-I-E.’

‘Pardon?’

‘I’m serious. They pronounce it Smiley. Wouldn’t you?’

The operator laughed. ‘No, sir, I’d change it! I’ll be as quick as I can.’

Skinner was surprised when Olive rang back three minutes later. ‘I’ve got your man, Mr Skinner. You were right; he’s one of the Smellies.’

‘Thanks, Olive. That’s good work. Will you put him through, please.’

There was a faint click on the line. ‘Mr Smellie? Assistant Chief Constable Bob Skinner, from Edinburgh. I’m told by the father of the late Michael Mortimer that you were a friend of his son.’

‘Yes, that’s correct. Since high school.’ The accent was similar to that of Jimmy Mortimer, but the rough corners had been polished smooth, t leave a clear classroom voice. It was deep, and rolled down the telephone line like an advancing fog.

‘I’ll be frank with you, Mr Smellie. We have run our enquiries almos to a standstill. We are looking for any sort of a lead, and so we are talking to friends of all the victims in this series of murders, just asking about them, trying to build up a picture of the sort of people they were.’

‘Where’ll that get you?’

‘I’ll know that when I get there. What can you tell me about Mike?’

‘Hah.’ The single sound was laden with sadness and irony. ‘What’s to tell? Mike was a great bloke. The most gifted guy I ever knew. A warm kind man with a generous spirit.’

‘What was he like at school?’

‘He was a leader, but without being resented in any way for it. Everyone liked him, pupils and staff. He was brilliant academically, but never flaunted it. He was only average at games, but made up for it by trying wice as hard as anyone else. And if anyone had a problem, he’d always help, but never talk about it afterwards.’

‘Did he stay that way? How did university affect him?’

‘As a friend, not at all. But as an individual, he became more passion ate, more involved with issues. He took part in all the Union debates, although he said he was doing it as part of his preparation for the law.’

‘Was he political?’

‘Yes and no. He always refused to join the heavy political groups. Spoke in debates as an independent. But personally, you’d probably have calle him left-wing. He supported every oppressed group under the sun, Sout frican blacks, South American Indians, North American Indians, Palestinians, Soviet Jews; you name it, if a group was under anyone’s thumb, Mike would speak up for it.’

‘Girlfriends?’

‘In the four years that we were at Glasgow together, I remember him having two brief things then one steady relationship. That was with a girl called Liz something. It lasted till we all graduated, then she went off to study French in France, and it just sort of died a natural death.

‘After that there were one or two who were fairly close. Sleeping together, but no long-term commitment either way. Mike was too keen on the law to allow it to have a rival in his life. Until he went to the Bar and met Rachel.’

‘Did you see him much after university?’

‘Yes, a lot when he was in Glasgow. Once he moved to Edinburgh not so much. But we were still best mates. It was the sort of friendshi where you don’t need to see each other all the time.’

‘Did you ever meet Rachel?’

‘Of course. She was at our wedding last summer. Mike was best man Christ, I was going to be best man at his, when they finally got round to setting the date.’ Smellie’s voice faltered at the memory.

Skinner allowed the man a few seconds to compose himself. ‘Did you know much about Mike’s professional life?’

‘A bit. Not the detail. He was meticulous. Never referred to his clients by name, or discussed cases in depth. But he did tell me that he liked criminal work, enjoyed defending a client who he felt had been victimised by the police - sorry, Mr Skinner, but that was the way he put it — an really fighting for him. He had a good record too. He and Rachel defended two Chinese guys who had been charged with rape and murder. Mike thought they were carrying the can for someone else. Between them, they took the prosecution to bits, and got them off.’

‘Yes,’ said Skinner, ‘I’ve heard about that case. Not one of the Crown’ s finest hours.

‘He never mentioned any work, or any private interest even, that was out of the ordinary?’

‘No, nothing that I can think of. No, never.’

‘Mm.’ Skinner paused. He sensed that the man was talked out. ‘Thank you very much, Mr Smellie; I’m sorry to have broken into your Sunday morning.’

Skinner replaced his receiver and swung round in his chair, sliding his long legs under the desk.

So that was it. The life of Michael. Brilliant, kind, and passionate about the law, oppressed minorities, and one woman. No enemies, save for Yobatu, and he was out of the picture.

Another brick wall across the highway of progress.

As Skinner teased memories of Mortimer from Johnny Smellie, Martin in his office, made his way gently back into the life of Rachel Jameson

He began by calling Kay Allan, by her mother’s reckoning her bes Edinburgh friend. Mrs Allan came to the telephone drowsily, after being wakened by her husband. He had been annoyed by a Sunday morning; call from anyone, let alone the police.

Martin introduced himself.

‘How long had you known Miss Jameson, Mrs Allan?’

‘About four years. We were in the same squash club, then we went to a keep-fit class together. And we went out for drinks on occasion with other girls in our circle.’

‘What sort of person was she?’

‘On the outside a quiet, gentle sort of person, but nobody’s soft touch I went to see her in court once. She was really forceful. It took me by surprise. It was someone that I didn’t really know.’

‘Did you ever meet her boyfriend?’

‘Mike? Yes, quite a few times. He was a really nice bloke. The sam type as Rachel, but with more showing on the outside. They were really well matched. What happened to him was just terrible. Poor Mike. Poor Rachel. To have everything, and then to have it all wiped out.’