Skinner's Trail (5 page)

Ten

Andy Martin sat bolt upright in his chair.

Did you say Linda?'

Skinner, in the process of pouring himself a cup of tea from the pot which the divisional commander's secretary had just brought in, put it down quickly on the conference table and straightened up, his eyes alert and questioning.

Did you say Plenderleith?'

Detective Superintendent Higgins was taken aback by the speed and vehemence of her two colleagues' simultaneous reactions. She looked at each in turn, puzzlement wrinkling her eyes.

`Yes. Linda Plenderleith, 492 Morningside Road. Tony Manson paid her four grand last Wednesday, through the Powderhall sauna account. Why the interest?'

Once more, Skinner and Martin opened their mouths in tandem, to reply. They paused and looked at each other, smiling. 'Okay, Andy,' said the ACC. 'You first.'

'A girl called Linda something-or-other seems to have been Tony Manson's personal tart. Tony's and his friends, that is.
Off limits
to anyone else. We were told that she worked out of Powderhall, but the manager there denied it. We were also told that she'd dropped out of sight. So what does she mean to you, boss?'

Skinner looked at him. The girl? She means nothing to me . but her surname does. D'you remember big Lennie Plenderleith?'

For a few seconds, Martin searched his mental filing system, then he nodded vigorously. 'Yes! You put him away, must be about six or seven years ago now, for serious assault. Didn't he work for Manson?'

`Uh-huh: Skinner nodded in his turn. 'He was head barman in that pub of Manson's in Leith Walk. You know the rough-looking one, the Milton Vaults. The one they call the War Office. While big Lennie worked there, it was as peaceful as a Sunday school. The trouble was bartending wasn't all that he did for Manson. He did heavy stuff as well . . . and I don't mean cellar work! Even as a lad, big Lennie was a real gorilla. Tough, tough boy. He was in the Newhaven gang, and that got him into all sorts of trouble. He was never dishonest, or did drugs, and as far as I know he didn't go looking for trouble. But whenever any of the other gangs came on to the Newhaven patch, they had to deal with him; only none of them could. Through the gang he built up quite a record of assault convictions in his teens and early twenties; one of them was for using a blade — although he didn't need it. But then he went to work for Tony Manson, and all of a sudden the arrests stopped. There were none for, oh, maybe for ten years.'

Skinner stopped to reflect, then continued. 'One or two people upset Manson over the years. They usually wound up in the Royal — "Don't know what happened, doctor. Ah just felt dizzy and fell down the stairs" — you know the story. We had a fair idea that big Lennie was Manson's "staircase", but none of the accident victims would- talk, so we never nabbed him —until finally we got lucky. Dalkeith CID were keeping loose
tabs on a suspected housebreaker. What they didn't know —none of us knew — was that the guy had burgled Tony's sister's house a couple of weeks earlier. So anyway, they're watching the guy one night as he's walking home from the pub, as per usual, when big Lennie steps out of a close and breaks his kneecaps, one, two, nice as you like, with a baseball bat. The CID officers saw the whole thing. Plenderleith didn't try to run for it, or resist, or anything else. He just shrugged his shoulders, gave the guy one last whack in the head, then dropped the bat and held out his wrists for the cuffs.

`If he hadn't given the guy that last whack he'd probably have got no more than two or three years. As it was, he fractured the victim's skull and left him brain-damaged, so the Fiscal charged him with attempt to murder. Eventually his counsel did a deal and Lennie pleaded to serious assault, but he still got ten. He wouldn't say a dicky-bird about why he did it or who had paid him, and the judge took a dim view of that.'

Skinner paused, scratching his chin. 'You know, I always liked big Lennie, in a funny sort of way. When he wasn't smashing kneecaps, he was just a plain, polite, ordinary bloke who seemed to do more thinking than talking. Ran a good bar, collected tons of money for charity, was good to his granny. He just had a talent for violence, like you have a talent for detecting, Andy, and like you, he put it to wor
k.
Someone would have done it for Manson. It was probably just as well that it was Lennie than some mindless hooligan. As far as I know, Lennie never broke any bones that he wasn't paid to break. I've never doubted that when he fractured that guy's skull, that was what Manson had told him to do. Let's think, when did he go down — 1988, 1989? No, 1990, that was it. And I remember hearing he'd married a young thing a year or two before that.'

Alison Higgins cut in. 'Excuse me boss, but Linda Plenderleith's bank account was opened in 1990 . . . with ten grand in cash.

'H
ah!
Wonder whose cash it was. Big Lennie's bonus for keeping his mouth shut, or a down-payment to Linda for future services. Who was paying her mortgage?'

`No one, sir. According to her bank she didn't have one.'

`Find out, then, who owns the flat. It'll be one of the Plenderleiths, or both of them, or one of Tony Manson's companies. The last of these, I'd guess. I remember another thing about Big Lennie. When he was done, his address was given as Leith Walk, the flat above the pub.'

`If he got ten in 1990, he should still be inside,' said Martin.

`Aye, in theory, but you know our fine, politically correct Parole Board. That four grand might tell a different story. We should have been told if he was getting out but, again, nobody's perfect. Alison, will you get one of your people on to Scottish Prisons and check on the scheduled release date of one Leonard Plenderleith, last known address Care of Her Majesty, Shotts.

He turned back to Martin. 'Makes for some interesting possibilities, doesn't it. Big Lennie does a job for Manson, keeps his mouth shut, thinking no doubt that Tony'll look after his wife while he's away. Tony looks after her all right. Puts her on the game, and eventually turns her into a group concubine for himself and his pals. Tell you what, Andy. I don't
get out
of the office nearly enough these days. Let's you and I take a run up to 492 Morningside Road. There's no way she'll be there, but there's just the odd chance that Mrs Plenderleith might have given the neighbours a clue to where she was headed.'

Eleven

‘Ev
en in the cheek-by-jowl world of the tenement dweller,
w
here other people's supposed secrets make commonplace conversation, Linda Plenderleith was a figure of rumour and mystery to her neighbours.

`A naice enough lassie, but she keeps to herself. None of us know what she does for a living. Maind you, I've always thought it's bar work, or hotel reception. She always gets home late, by taxi.' Mrs Angus occupied the ground-floor flat to the right of the mouth of the tiled close, directly below that of Linda Plenderleith. Her distinctive, flattened Morningside tones suggested disappointment over the gap in her knowledge, rather than disapproval of Linda Plenderleith's unsocial working hours.

Skinner imagined that, through the eyes of Mrs Angus, commuting by taxi was a mark of respectability.

The neighbour stood in her doorway, wearing the uniform of the Morningside matron, tweed skirt, twin-set and imitation pearls. Her arms were folded across her ample bosom as she eyed the two policemen, weighing in her mind the significance of their visit.

`When did you last see Mrs Plenderleith?' asked Martin. `Let me think. It must have been last Friday. Yes, last Friday afternoon'

`And was she going out or coming home?'

`Coming home.

`And you didn't see her leave after that?'

No. I don't think she's been to her work for a couple of weeks. At least I haven't heard any taxis after midnight.'

`Has there been any sound from upstairs since last Friday?'

`Not at all. But I never hear anything from above. This is a good building. There's a layer of ash between the floors. That's what they did in those days. No noise gets through that. Are you sure her doorbell was working?'

Skinner nodded. 'Yes, quite sure. Has Mrs Plenderleith had any visitors lately?'

Mrs Angus thought for a moment or two. 'She hardly ever had visitors. But I did see her leaving with a man last Wednesday. It would have been early afternoon. Then she came back alone, an hour later.'

`What did he look like?' asked Martin.

`Well he'd be about your size, I'd have said. Very well dressed: one of those expensive shiny suits. Beautifully groomed. Looked like a very nice man. Maybe a friend of Mr Plenderleith?'

Neither detective responded to the heavily loaded question in her tone. Skinner simply smiled. The quality of Tony Manson's tailoring had been a legend in his lifetime. 'Thank you, Mrs Angus.'

`Andy, let's try again upstairs. Maybe Mrs Plenderleith was asleep last time.'

The sentinel of 492 Morningside Road peered after them as they disappeared once more into the tiled close.

They trotted up the stone stairway. Linda Plenderleith's green front door was on the first landing. Skinner pressed the
brass button of the doorbell once more, leaning on it for several seconds. He and Martin stood in silence for almost a minute, listening for any sound within the flat, but hearing none. Skinner frowned at Martin. He tried the door handle, but the Yale lock was dropped. Suddenly he crouched down and, flipping up the letter-box, peered into the narrow hall. He shoved his nose into the rectangular opening, and sniffed deeply. Then, without a word, he stood upright once more, took a pace backwards, sprang up, and slammed the heel of his right shoe powerfully against the shiny brass circle of the door's Yale lock.

With a sound of ripping wood, the door burst open.

As soon as he stepped into the hall, Martin realised that it was the unmistakable smell of death which had alerted Skinner. They followed it into a bedroom, facing out on to Morningside Road, and found her there.

Where Tony Manson's ending had been clean, almost bloodless, Linda Plenderleith had been butchered.

She was sprawled on her back, naked, on the bed. The duvet had been thrown across the room, and lay against the wall on the right. The pillows were crimson. The sheets were crumpled, saturated with blood, and in one place stained with faeces.

Martin took a deep breath and stepped towards the body. Skinner followed slowly suppressing his revulsion and looking round the room. He saw, on the tiny dressing-table unit, a small framed photograph of a red-haired woman and a tall man. He noticed that one of the three doors of the white wardrobe unit lay open and saw, discarded on the floor before it, a bloody sweatshirt and a pair of black jeans. A pink dressing-gown had been thrown across a canvas director chair
which faced the dressing mirror. Finally he steeled himself and stepped up beside Martin to look closely at what had been Linda Plenderleith.

The bloodless, pale-blue lips were beginning to shrink back from the teeth, giving them a look of protuberance. Already, with its sunken cheeks, the woman's face had taken on a skull-like appearance. The eyes were half open, but only the whites showed. The red hair was swept back, or had been pulled back, from the high forehead. The skin, where it was not smeared with blood, was exceptionally pale, almost translucent.

Skinner leaned over the carcass. As he studied it, he spoke to Martin, to maintain his detachment more than anything else. 'I think I can count six wounds to the throat. A big, crescent-shaped slash from ear to ear, probably not deep enough to do the job. Then three shorter deep cuts on the right side, and two on the left. It looks as if he straddled her, jerked her head back by the hair, and just hacked away until the blood was pumping. Look at that streak up the headboard and on to the wall. That must have happened when he hit the main artery.'

He looked more closely at the wall, his eyes widening. `Jesus Christ, Andy. Look at that. The daft bastard must have pushed against the wall when he was getting off her. That looks like a perfect left-hand print.'

Martin followed his pointing finger, and nodded agreement. 'Incredible. Whoever it was must have been in a complete frenzy. He certainly wasn't thinking about making things hard for us. Who's your money on? Was this the same bloke who did Manson? Or could this have been Tony getting even with the woman for blackmailing him?'

Skinner stood up from the woman's body and walked away.

`Andy, son, you know how much I detest jumping to conclusions, but big Lennie is a stick-on fucking certainty for this one. And I say that without even having confirmed that he's out of jail. Take a gander in here.' Martin looked around. Skinner was standing by the wardrobe units.

`There's man's stuff in here, and it's not Tony Manson's. Cheap suits, jeans, bomber jackets, all XL size. This is Lennie's kit. And look at these things on the floor. He's dumped his bloodstained stuff and changed clothes. Look at this, too.

Beckoning Martin to follow, Skinner stepped slowly alongside a trail of brownish smudges on the smoke-grey carpet, taking care not to tread on any of them. They led out of the bedroom into the hall, and from there into a long narrow bathroom. On the white PVC flooring, the brown stains were quite clearly dried blood. An electric shower was plumbed into the wall above the bath taps, and a white plastic curtain hung from a rectangular rail. A big pale-blue towel lay discarded across the toilet seat. Skinner moved carefully into the room, and looked into the bath. The safety mat had trapped some of the water from the shower. It was pink, matching that trapped in the channel between the white tiling and the edge of the tub. On the soap, in its dish, Skinner could see clearly a large, rusty-brown thumb-print.

He shook his head. 'God, he must have been covered in it! You're right, Andy. He must have been out of his tree. Wonder how long he knew. I wonder who told him about Manson and what he'd done to her. Get on the phone, Andy, and call the scene-of-crime people down here right away.'

As Martin took out hi
s
mobile phone, so Skinner pulled his own from his pocket. He searched his memory for a number,
recalled it without reference to his diary, and dialled it in. `Room 35, please.'

There was a pause, then, 'Sarah Skinner.'

`Hello, my love. How are you and Jazz?'

`We're great. Jazz is out like a light. I've just fed him. God, what an appetite. I don't know how I'm going to keep up with him.'

Even in his grim surroundings, Skinner laughed. 'Listen, let me take your mind off your mammaries for a bit. I'm at another murder scene. There's a connection with Tony Manson. After your critique of Banks's performance on Sunday, I don't want to call him in on this one. I need to know with authority when the victim here died. Looking at her, I'd say she's been dead for two days at the very least, but I need to know for certain whether she could have been killed by the same person who did Tony Manson. If the answer is yes, then it looks as if all the pieces fit. Who else would you recommend?'

There was a drawn-out silence on the other end. 'No one. Send a car for me.'

`Sarah, you're kidding!'

The hell I am. Look, I'm fit as a flea. Jazz is going to sleep for three or four hours. Where are you?'

`Morningside Road.'

`Even better. That's only a mile or so from here. Now, come on, get that car down here, or you'll just have to call in old horse-doctor Banks!'