Skinner's Trail (2 page)

Two

The dead ones bothered him so much more now.

Before . . . well, before it had been part of the job. He had been called in and there they were: carcasses, no more than that. It didn't matter whether they had been men, women or children. At the moment of his first contact, they were all just victims, and Skinner had been able to deal with them on that basis, however bloody the remains, however cruel the killing.

Oh, he had been righteously angered on many occasions. There had been a child killer a decade ago; Bob had seen to it, with a word to an assistant governor, that the man's first night as a convicted prisoner had been spent in open association with the rest. His next three weeks had been spent in hospital, and all the years since then in segregation. Yet, on the whole, Skinner had coped dispassionately with the nasty side of the job. It was, after all, an essential part of leadership. It had helped him take the fast track to his present exalted position as Assistant Chief Constable and head of criminal investigation in Scotland's capital, a city whose cruel streak is never shown to the tourists but which lurks there, nonetheless.

Yet Bob Skinner, like the great majority, had reached his forties without ever having seen another human being actually die, without looking into a person's face as the last breath was
drawn. Now he had been there, done that. In fact, he had done more — much more. Now, every time he was called to a murder scene, the centre of attraction was more than just a victim. Skinner found himself stepping into that person's mind, thinking their thoughts, forming a picture of that last moment, not as an observer but as a participant experiencing the rage and terror of the life as it was stolen.

`Theft. That's what murder is
.' As he opened the heavy brassbound front door, flanked on either side by a row of four granite curling stones, Skinner recalled a sombre speech made to a police-force dinner party by a senior judge.
'The most serious theft of all: the theft of life, of time, of years unfulfilled. And for what? Once it's stolen, it can't be used. It has no resale value, no value to anyone other than its owner, to whom of course it is beyond price. Mostly, the theft
takes place without thought, in a moment of anger, and is regretted the instant it is done. But life isn't a magazine filched from a rack, or a can of beans from a supermarket shelf
.
You can't sneak a stolen life back to the shop and pretend that nothing happened.'

The eyes stared at Skinner, upside-down, as he climbed the staircase. The head lolled backwards over the landing; the dark hair looked as if it was standing on end, the mouth hung open, grotesque and oddly obscene, the tip of the tongue licking out over the top lip. The banisters hung by shreds of wood. They were solid mahogany, yet they had been smashed by the bulk of the body and the force with which it had crashed backwards through them.

The tableau of death offered a surreal and stark contrast to the scene in which Bob had been involved only four hours before, and the private room in the Simpson where he had left mother and son asleep. From birth to death in twenty minutes,
he thought. His mind swam for a second, and a violent shudder ran through him.

Andy Martin was waiting for him in the upper hallway at the top of the staircase, with Alan Royston the force press officer.

If Martin had noticed Skinner's reaction, he gave no sign. `Stone cold, boss. There's hardly any blood. Single puncture wound straight into the heart. Whoever did this either knew exactly where to hit, or they were dead lucky.'

`Whoever did this didn't rely on luck. How long has he been dead?'

The doctor's first guess was that he was done between one and two a.m. The cleaning lady found him. She lets herself in around nine every morning.'

`He lived alone, still, did he?'

`Always has done. He's never been married. The odd girlfriend, but mostly he used the tarts from his saunas.'

Skinner grunted.
‘H
mm. A man of simple tastes, then. Who's the senior bod here from Division?'

The answer came from a room off the landing. 'So far, it's me, sir. DI Donaldson's on leave, and Miss Higgins is over in the west, crewing her brother's yacht on the Clyde.' The husky shape of Detective Sergeant Mario McGuire appeared, framed in the doorway.

`Where's Roy Old?'

`Away in Hawick with the Chief and Brian Mackie, looking after the Princess Royal,' said Martin.

Skinner nodded. 'Of course. Right, Mario, what have we got, then?'

`Here, sir?' said McGuire. Not a lot, you might say. Only a very dead Anthony Manson. Owner and operator of a dozen
housing-scheme laundrettes, eight takeaways, six dodgy lockup public houses, four saunas of ill repute, and one curling club complete with blue-chip membership to make Tony there look halfway respectable. The ideal setup for the biggest drug baron in Scotland.'

Skinner laughed ironically. 'Come on now, sergeant. The late Mr Manson has never been charged with a single crime or misdemeanour. Okay, so half a dozen of his former employees are doing time for dealing, but that's still no reason to speak ill of the dead.'

McGuire snorted. 'The only thing I've got to say to the dead, sir, is, "Cheerio, Tony, you won't be missed." We all know what he was.'

Skinner nodded. 'So the place is clean, then. He hasn't left anything we can stick on him beyond the grave?'

`Clean as a whistle, boss,' said Martin. 'Not as much as a
Beecham’s
powder.'

`What about motive? Any chance it was a house-breaking interrupted?'

Martin grinned, raising his blond eyebrows. 'Who'd be daft enough to burgle Tony Manson, boss? No sign of theft. His jewellery's untouched, the video's still there, and there's a few thousand in cash in a drawer in his desk downstairs.'

`So what do we know?'

`Not a lot, so far. He took a taxi home from the casino in Kent Street a bit after midnight. We traced the driver. Tony bunged him a tenner tip apparently. He'd had a good night. There was a glass with the end of a whisky in it, in the study downstairs. It looks as if he came in, had himself a nightcap, and wandered up the stairs. Your man — and it has to be a man, from the way the body was rammed through that balustrade —
seems to have been waiting just inside the bedroom. Tony's prints are fresh on the door handle. He opens the door, and . . .' The sentence tailed off, unfinished.

Skinner leaned over the body. 'With a knife, too, lads. Now that's unusual, if this was a contract job. I have only once, that I can recall, seen a hit where a knife was used. And we cleared that one up. You know the usual story: the pros nearly always use big-calibre pistols, or sawn-offs.'

`Mm.' Martin nodded his agreement. 'That's right: weapons that don't leave any room for doubt. And it wasn't as if there was any need to be quiet about this one. You could fire a cannon in here and the folk next door wouldn't hear, the houses are so far apart.'

`Another thing,' said Skinner. 'If this was done by a specialist act, he's from out of town. From out of Scotland, I'll bet. If this guy had worked up here before, I'd have heard of it. And that could paint a very scary picture. Tony never allowed any organised opposition to develop in Edinburgh. A hard guy in a horrible trade, but at least with him around we've known the extent of the problem, and we've been able to keep it in check. I think he even had the sense a few years back to realise that he was going over the score, and to rein himself in. So if someone's had him bumped, that could mean a takeover bid. That's the devil we knew lying there, that heap of dead meat. If we're going to face a new team, Andy, it looks as if I've put you in charge of the squad in the nick of time.'

`Thanks, boss. Thanks a million. You're always doing things like this to me. Mind you, I've had no sniff of any rival bidders for Tony's franchise. I'll put out feelers when we get back to base.

`Yes, and I'
ll
put Maggie Rose to work,
tr
ying to trace similar
killings through the PNC. I'll have Brian Mackie check his network, too. You never know, this could even have been overseas talent.' He turned. 'Mario, you've searched the place once. Now do it again, looking for anything funny — anything that doesn't seem natural.'

Skinner called to the press officer. 'Alan, you're free to make a statement to the media outside. You can't confirm without formal identification that this is T
o
ny Manson, but tell them that no one will sue them if they say it is. Beyond that, just say that a full-scale murder inquiry is being set up. Then we can sit back and wait for the GANG WARS headlines that we will surely see tomorrow.'

Skinner paused and smiled. 'And while we're waiting, you, Andy, can come back to the Simpson and meet your new
godson.

Three

_No danger of him growing up to be a ballet dancer. Look at the size of those feet!'

`Just a minute, Martin! That's my wee brother you're talking about.' Alex Skinner laughed and threw her arms in delight around Andy's broad shoulders, as they perched on the edge of the bed.

His vivid green eyes sparkled as he glanced sideways at her. `And your father!' he said. 'Where d'you think he got those plates from? Tell you what, Sarah, it'll be special-order trainers for him by the time he's fourteen.'

Bob looked across at Alex and Andy, thoughtfully. They had each come through terrible times, only a few months before. In the aftermath they had seemed to come closer together in their friendship, each helping the other to heal. The medicine seemed to have worked. Sitting side by side, they looked for all the world like two happy people without a care. But, still, Bob fancied that he saw the occasional shadow pass across his daughter's face, and noted a sombre side to his friend's sunny nature that had not been there a year before.

Sarah was seated at the window, in a high-backed armchair, cradling Jazz in her right arm. His shawl — a Skinner family heirloom in which Alex herself had once been wrapped — was loosened, and one corner hung towards the floor. Golden
evening sun flooded in, washing over mother and son, and glinting in the grey of Bob's hair as he leaned over the chair back. He whistled softly, and Jazz looked upwards toward the sound, curiosity stilling the kicking of his feet . . . which were, Bob had to admit, generously sized.

Do you hear what that policeman's saying about us, wee man. Good honest working feet those are. Just made for pounding a beat. Which is what that cheeky bugger'll be doin' before too long, if he doesn't watch it! He'll make a good godfather though, Jazz. Biggest gangster in the force, so the boys say. Your godmother will see you okay, too. You Baptists don't have some rule against sisters being godmothers, do you, love?'

Sarah smiled across at Alex. 'If we did, I'd look for another church that didn't.' She switched her glance, and her grin, to Andy Martin. 'So, Superintendent, where did you drag my old man off to this afternoon, the moment our eyes closed? Didn't you think he might be feeling as tired as we did?'

Andy shook his blond head, throwing up his hands in a fending-off gesture. 'I didn't drag him anywhere, honest. He dragged himself. It wasn't any old crime scene either, mother. Talk of godfathers: that's who this was — Edinburgh's own. One Tony Manson.'

Sarah's eyes widened. 'Even I've heard of him! What happened? Wish I'd been there.'

`Steady on, Sarah,' said Alex. 'Yo
u
're out of that line now. You're a professor, remember.'

Ah, but I can still be called in to crime scenes!'

Five months before, when word of her impending withdrawal from general practice had reached the Principal of Edinburgh University, Sarah had been made a surprising and totally unexpected offer. The Faculty of Advocates, the
Scottish Bar, had just agreed to sponsor a new chair of Criminal Forensics and Pathology within the University's Medical School, and was pressing for a high-profile appointment. Without Bob's knowledge, Archie Nelson, the recently elected Dean of Faculty, had proposed Dr Sarah Grace Skinner, already recognised, after less than two years in post, as Scotland's leading police surgeon. Recognising both the power of the paymaster and the merit of the appointment, the Principal had approached Sarah, and offered her the chair on a three-year tenure. When she had recovered from her surprise, Sarah, with Bob's agreement, had accepted, and had been installed as Scotland's youngest professor. She had spent the latter part of her pregnancy planning her course, and working on her lectures, which were scheduled to begin with the new term, in the autumn.

`So, come on, boys,' she said. 'Tell me about it. My professional curiosity's well wound up now.'

Bob sighed and shrugged his shoulders. 'Well, if you insist. But there was nothing spectacular about it. Single blow with a long-bladed knife, Dr Banks said. Victim taken by surprise by an intruder, late at night. It's likely he was half asleep, and so an easy target. Banks is doing the PM himself.'

`Banks!' Sarah snorted. 'Couldn't you have got Burke and Hare? They'd have done a better job. What else did that horse-doctor have to tell you?'

`What more should there be?' asked Bob, but even as he spoke he recognised that the doctor's scene-of-crime examination had been perfunctory. And he knew that his wife had a special talent. She could look at a murder scene and put together a description of the crime which would later prove unerringly accurate.

`What more?' said Sarah. 'Plenty! How tall was the attacker? Was it a man or woman? Was he or she left-handed or orthodox? Did Manson do any damage himself? All that stuff.'

Bob smiled. 'Come on, love. Don't be so hard on the man. I'm sure all that'll be in his PM report.'

`Yes, and he'll give you the Derby winner, too! Listen, your people are going to be under pressure on this one. You can guess what the media coverage will be like tomorrow. Let me help. I'm going to cool my heels in here until Wednesday at least, practising the nuts and bolts of this motherhood thing. Why don't you bring me in the PM report and the photographs tomorrow, and I'll try to fill in some of the gaps that Banks will have left?'

Bob opened his mouth to protest, but his wife fixed him with a look which told him that refusal was not an option, so he closed it again. Andy and Alex, looking on from their bedside perch, smiled at this silent exchange.

`Okay, Prof, if it'll make you happy, I'll do that. You're in a strong negotiating position today, I suppose. See what you're up against in life's battles of wills, wee Jazz?'

As if in response, Jazz wriggled in Sarah's arms, released a mewling cat-like cry, and turned his face towards his mother's breast in a gesture which was pure reflex, but which could have only one meaning.

Sarah laughed. 'I think you'll find that this one won't take no for an answer either! Go on you lot. Go and wet his head, or whatever. I've got some mothering to do here.'