Skinner's Trail (7 page)

Fourteen

Lucky lady, Maggie. You're going to get to do something that I've never done: you're going to Spain on the Company. And before you ask, no, you can't take McGuire!'

It was 8:27 a.m. on Wednesday 15 May. Skinner and his personal assistant had been at work for almost an hour. The remains of their breakfast, of bacon rolls from the canteen and coffee from Skinner's filter, lay on the rosewood desk.

`There's no doubt at all that Big Lennie's in Spain. Maybe he thinks we won't come after him; but if he reckons he can knock off two people and simply become just another anonymous hoodlum among the crowds of villains on the Costa Del Crime, well, he's got another think coming. I saw the mess he made of that woman. I can't get too worked up about Tony Manson, but wherever Lennie is, and whatever provocation he thought he had, I've — we've all got a duty to make sure that he can't do to another woman what he did to his wife. That's why I want you out there: to make sure that the Guardia Civil don't treat this as just another request for assistance from a foreign police force.'

Maggie Rose looked Skinner in the eye. 'Why me, boss? You could send Brian Mackie. After all, international liaison's part of his Special Branch brief now. You're not just giving me a perk, are you?'

`Hah!' Skinner laughed; a sudden, short, snorting laugh. `No, I am not! Since when did I hand out sweeties? Anyway, you haven't been in this post long enough to have earned a freebie. There's a good reason for your going, rather than Brian. Even though things have changed for the SB, he still has to be kept anonymous. And that's the last thing I want on this investigation. I want to generate as much publicity for this as I can. I've already told Alan Royston to call a press conference as soon as he can, for first thing this morning, and then I'm going to tell all. You'll be with me at the top table. I'm going to announce that we're anxious to interview the victim's husband, and that we know he's in Spain. Then I'm going to introduce you as the detective responsible for liaison with the Spanish bobbies — Skinner's personal emissary and all that stuff. Fancy being a media superstar, Maggie?'

Not a lot, sir. Much more up Mario's street. Why don't you send him?'

`Apart from the fact that he's not senior enough, he's a bull. You're a diplomat. This isn't just PR for home consumption. I want the story to follow you out there. I want the Spanish to realise that this isn't just another domestic murderer we're after. This is a man who has made a career out of violence. I want the Scottish media pressuring the Spanish for results, so that I know they're giving us their best efforts. Your job out there will be to brief the Guardia Civil, and to join them in pursuing certain lines of inquiry. You'll really be leading them, in that you'll be making sure that those lines of inquiry are followed up.'

He pointed to his desk. 'Take the picture book out with you, and all the reports: scene-of-crime, forensic, postmortem. Contact Edinburgh University this morning and arrange to

have them all translated into Spanish. How good is yours, by the way?'

`Quite good. I've been doing it at the Colegio Espanol for years. How did you know about that?'

`It's on your file.' Maggie raised her eyebrows in surprise. `You don't think you'd be where you are now without some vetting, do you?' said Skinner. 'That's yet another reason why I'm sending you rather than anyone else. I want you to be involved in this as actively as you can.

Rose nodded. 'What special lines of inquiry did you mean, sir?'

`Two really. I want you to check out that place Cocozza told us about, the one that Manson was thinking about putting his dough into. Check there for any sightings of the big man, but while you're at it, find out all you can about the place, and about the types who own it. The other thing you should do is check up on the bank account Cocozza told us about, in the Banco Central in Alicante. See whether it's been activated.'

`One thing, boss. You haven't mentioned Manson at all. Do I take the pics and reports of his murder too?'

Skinner shook his head. 'No. Leave that out.'

Will you be telling the press that we want to talk to Plenderleith about Manson as well?'

`No.'

'Why not?'

`I don't want to do that for now. When someone like Manson gets knocked off — not that gangland killings are ten a penny in Edinburgh, but we've had a few — people get nervous until it's cleared up. The criminal community doesn't like uncertainty. When a power vacuum develops, people react in two ways. Some get scared: often important people in the
network
who had nothing to do with it, but wonder whether they might be the next target. Others get brave: the wee folk with a grudge, who might have been shat on by the dear departed or his team. Whatever the reason, they begin to tell us things anonymously or right out in the open, things we'd never hear in normal times. Eventually a new top dog emerges and everything goes back to normal, but until that happens we've got the whip hand.

`Since Manson was knocked off, Andy Martin's squad has had tip-offs about three of his dealers from disgruntled punters. They're all locked up now. We might not get convictions against any of them, but at least they're all blown. They're out of business, and the network's damaged.'

`Who'll be top dog after Manson?'

'I don't know, but neither does anyone else yet, and that's to our good. There'll be one eventually, you can be sure, but until he can show himself, the vacuum's still there. If we let it be known that Tony only got killed because he was shagging someone's wife, it'll be filled in a week. The network will close up.'

`But why should it? Without Manson, might it not just fall apart?'

Not a chance, Maggie. The trade is bigger than Manson. It isn't driven by the dealers alone. It's driven first by the exporters, then the importers, then the dealers. Always three key links in the chain. Whether the supply comes from Sicily, Corsica, Eastern Europe, or wherever, there's a natural market for the product in every developed country. If the chain loses a link somewhere, it always finds another.'

He paused and looked across the desk at his assistant. 'So that's the main reason why I don't want to finger big Lennie for
Manson's murder right now. With a break in the chain, there's always a chance that the other two players will show themselves, trying to plug the gap. If we can nail them, then we can break the whole thing up.'

The main reason, boss? What's the other?'

`Och, I don't know. There probably isn't one. It's just that —well, you know me: I like all the bits to fit. And there's still a piece of this jigsaw that doesn't quite mesh.'

`What do you mean?'

Skinner hesitated. As he opened his mouth to reply, there was a heavy knock on the door. 'Come!' he shouted.

A second later, Roy Old's head showed round the door. 'I've just had a call from Alison Higgins, sir. Cocozza's story about Manson's visit checked out all the way. He did go to see big Lennie last week. They were watched. They were even videoed. It was all quite cordial. The officers on duty that day said that big Lennie seemed like a dog with two cocks — oh, sorry Maggie.'

`Lucky bitch!' interjected Rose, dead-pan.

Old grinned self-consciously, as he advanced into the room, closing the door behind him. 'That is, he seemed pleased as Punch by a visit from the big boss. Began with a hug and ended with a handshake.

Skinner pushed himself up from his chair. 'Right. Tough that it seems to leave us with nothing to pin on that wee shit Cocozza. We'll have to spring him. Maggie, give Alison Higgins the word, will you, please. While you're doing that, I'll observe the niceties and call Jose Pompo, the Spanish Consul. It'll give you added clout if I fix up your trip through him. And then get the translation job under way. But make sure you're ready for the press conference at nine-thirty.'

That's earlier than usual, isn't it?' said Roy Old.

`Maybe so,' said Skinner, beaming.
B
ut the hacks can dance to my tune for a change. I've got a wife and son to collect from the Simpson by ten-thirty, and nothing — not even the assembled Edinburgh media corps in all its glory — will make me late for that!'

Fifteen

‘You
fancy your new room, wee man, don't you?'

The baby's eyes were wide open as Bob cradled him in the crook of his arm. They seemed to follow the movement of the brightly coloured - mobile suspended above his cradle, as it swung in a slow circle in response to Sarah's touch. That, and the American-style satin-lined cradle, had been her choice. Bob had picked the nursery-rhyme motif of the wallpaper. A huge stuffed panda, which he had bought in John Lewis that morning, en route for the Simpson, filled a high-backed rocking-chair by the dormer window.

Bob carried his three-day-old son over to the window and showed him the mature back garden, flooded in midday sunshine. 'See that tree down there, Jazz? That nice silver birch with the strong branches. That's where we'll hang your swing in a year or so. The climbing frame can go on the grass just over there, and the sandpit can go up against the garage. You'll be a lucky lad, 'cos there's the same again in your other house out at Gullane, the very swing and frame that your big sister Alex had when she was a nipper. She didn't have a sandpit though. There was hardly any point, was there, with a beach out there.'

Sarah reached up and ruffled her husband's hair. 'You're really looking forward to all this, Pops, ain't you?'

Too right, I am. His first childhood, but my third. What I'm looking forward to is doing all the things right this time that I might have got wrong with Alex. There's not too many guys my age get that chance.'

`From what Alex says, you didn't get too much wrong. Come on, set him down in the cradle. Let him get used to it.'

Gently, Bob laid the bright-eyed child down in his crib. For a second it seemed as if Jazz would cry at the breaking of the contact, but then his eye was caught once more by the blue-painted balsa-wood birds of the mobile, and he stared following their movement. Quietly, mother and father backed away from the cradle, and stood together by the window.

`It's a dream, isn't it, honey?' said Sarah softly.

Bob said nothing. He could only grin, happier than he could express in words.

`What's a dream, too,' she went on, 'is the idea that you'll actually be off work for a few days. How long are you taking?'

`Best part of a week. I've cleared my diary until Tuesday morning. Roy Old's looking after things. It's just you and me and Jazz, apart from tomorrow night. Remember, I told you about it — a meeting of Murrayfield and Cramond Rotary Club. Peter asked me to do it a while back. It's in their programme, so I don't like to back out. Is that okay? They start at half-six, so I should be back around eight-thirty.'

Sarah smiled. 'Well, since you're taking us to Spain in a couple of weeks, I don't really think I can bitch about it. Anyway, Alex is coming through for the night, and Andy said he'd look in later. You'll be back for him, won't you?'

`Mm, sure. Listen, about Spain. You sure it's okay, with Jazz being so young?'

Sarah turned to face him. His arms circled her waist as she placed the flat of her hands on his chest.

`Listen, you can be the fussiest Dad of all time, but trust me on the medical side, just like I leave the detecting to you. I told you already, before we set off I'll take him back to the paediatrician for a 500-mile check-up. If there's the slightest flicker of disapproval on her face, we cancel the ferry and stay home. But worry not, my love. That boy of ours is the thrivingest baby you'll find in a day's march.'

`It won't be too hot?'

`Would it be too hot for a Spanish baby? It's early summer, and so it won't be baking. Believe me, he'll be fine. He'll be in shade all the time. That buggy you bought for him has got everything save air-conditioning, and the house does have that. As for his food, I carry my own supply, remember.' She tapped her chest with a long finger. D-cup these days, boy. Tits like racing Zeppelins!'

Bob laughed and hugged her, gently. 'Right, I'm convinced. He'll be fine. But how about you? Will you be all right by then?'

She smiled slyly as she looked up at him. 'Three days after the birth might be a bit soon, but before long, you'll have found out just how all right I am. And that, my love, is a promise that I will surely enjoy keeping!'

Sixteen

‘T
he bar service is better than usual this evening, Bob. They must have noticed that you were coming!'

Peter Payne held a brimming pint of lager in each hand as he approached the alcove in the Barnton Hotel's main bar where Skinner was waiting. He was a tall ruddy-faced man with a shock of black hair which belied his fifty-something years. The two had met some years before, not in Edinburgh but in L'Escala, in Catalonia, where each had a holiday home. The normally reserved Peter, fuelled by alcohol, had introduced himself towards the end of a party. In the years since then they had met more frequently in Spain than in Edinburgh, since their trips there often coincided, although they found time for golf at Skinner's club in Gullane or in Edinburgh at least once a year.

Anthea and I were delighted to hear about the little chap. You'll give Sarah our
congratulations, won't you?'

`That's kind of you. Of course I will.'

`What's his name? What did your Scotsman notice say - again? James Andrew, that was it. Which will it be?'

`Neither. Jazz is the name, my friend. Mark it well. He's going to be a star!'

Peter's eyes glazed for a second, while he sought an appropriate response. 'Jazz, eh.

Bob grinned at his friend's reaction, then moved him on to the evening's business. 'I have a fairly bog-standard presentation for evenings like this, Peter. The changing role of the police, then the role of the CID, that sort of thing. Alternatively I can talk about experiences: great moments in a memorable career, that sort of self-effacing stuff. Which would your members prefer, do you think?'

The latter, I should think. I'm sure they'd love to hear the inside story of that affair last year.'

Skinner smiled. 'Okay, I'll give them the blood and thunder!'

`Great!' Peter took a swig of his beer and glanced at his watch. 'Look, let's go in to supper. Bring your pint with you.'

He stood up to lead the way, then paused. 'Oh, before I forget, there's a chap here you must meet. A new member. Apparently, he has a place in Lar Escala' — Peter's English accent rolled the vowels together as he used the Castillian form of the name — 'but he always goes in June and September. He said he was keen to meet you too. I'll introduce you after your address.

They moved into the function room which had been set aside for the meeting. Skinner, a regular speaker to Rotarians and Round Tablers, smiled to himself when he saw the two-course menu of minestrone soup and steak, standard fare at such events. The speed with which the meal was consumed was standard practice also, as if it was a chore to be completed, rather than fare to be enjoyed. Forty-three minutes after they had entered the dining room, Peter Payne introduced his guest, succinctly but generously.

Skinner rose to his feet. 'Good evening, gentlemen.' The emancipation of women in the Rotary movement was still not
universal in Edinburgh. 'I have a standard opening line for events such as this. Are there any journalists in the house, and if there are, will they please identify themselves?'

The news editor of a right-wing tabloid rose, smiling, to his feet. He took a small tape-recorder from a pocket of his jacket, and ostentatiously removed the microcassette.

'That's fine, Gregor,' said Skinner, smiling. Now just keep your hands where I can see them, so I can speak as freely as I like.

As he had promised Peter Payne, his thirty-minute address contained considerable thunder and the odd drop of blood. Skinner recognised the presence of a ghoulish element in every group he addressed, however sophisticated it might be. He never pandered to it, but at the same time he took pains never to glamorise his job. Several fathers in the audience winced at one point as he described the injuries inflicted by a serial killer of children on his young victims, and others nodded as if from experience when he described the ease with which young people could be led along the path of drug-taking, from the first taste of marijuana to mainlining. As always, Skinner took care to sprinkle his speech liberally with examples of the black humour which is commonplace among policemen, from the tale of the masked and armed post-office robber who dropped his credit cards at the scene of his crime, and who had then called his bank to report the loss, to an in-house legend of a middle-aged Special Branch constable whose elevated observation post at a Royal visit had given him an entirely unexpected view of the Royal retiring room, the use of which he recorded for posterity with his 300mm telephoto lens.

Finally, he wound up by inviting questions. 'You
understand I can't say anything about current investigations, but that should still leave plenty of scope.'

A plump, dark-haired man in a severely cut business suit raised a hand. 'I believe in arming the police. What's your view, Mr Skinner?'

Skinner nodded, unconsciously, at this question which he was regularly asked. 'When it's necessary, we do it and we're pretty good at judging necessity. Like most policemen, I am dead against general arming. Community relations are tricky enough to manage without making life even more difficult for our officers by hanging pistols from their waist. There's the familiarity angle too. If all our coppers had guns, pretty soon all the hoodlums would have them too. Then, night generally following day as it does, we'd have an increase in their use in muggings and in trivial situations; arguments in pubs, that sort of thing. Apart from all that, the use of firearms is a skilled business. If you're an armed and threatening bad guy, and you see me or any other officer showing a gun, you'd better be bloody careful, because we a
r
e all qualified marksmen. I've got a man in my team who could singe your eyebrows from one hundred yards.'

He turned to indicate his host. 'Now, look for example, at the place where Peter and I live in Spain. I'm relaxed about the Guardia, but the local police carry guns, and that scares me witless. There's a young fellow patrols the beaches. He has a bike and he wears shorts and trainers as part of his uniform. His job takes him into the midst of crowds of children, yet he carries a gun. They use girls on traffic duty. Their uniforms don't even fit properly, but they carry bloody great .38 magnums. God forbid that any of them should ever think 'to draw a weapon. I'd bet you that none of them could hit an
elephant in the
arse if they were holding its tail! Those young traffic girls would dislocate their wrists if they fired those things they carry. That's what general arming of police means, and I hope we never see it here. Right now, I have guns when I need them . . . and in normal times that is a rare occurrence.'

A bald man at a table twenty feet from Skinner raised a hand. 'How does a policeman feel when he kills a man?'

Skinner shrugged. 'I can tell you how he — or she — should feel. Concerned, and personally upset. It's a hell of a serious thing. But if the officer has acted properly and professionally, then that concern will be countered by the knowledge that the criminal committed effective suicide by putting himself in that killing situation.'

`Mr Skinner.' A bulky man in a tweed jacket, with heavy eyebrows and a beard, broke in over his answer. 'Wasn't it the case that one of your officers shot and killed a man last year as he was leaving a crime scene, but the unarmed victim was shot in the back? What do you say to that?'

There was a smile on Skinner's lips as he answered, but his eyes were suddenly icy cold. 'I say that was the finest shot I have ever seen in my life.'

He paused for several seconds to allow his answer to sink in, holding the bearded man in his gaze. Then, 'You seem well read, sir. In which case I'd ask you to recall that the criminal in question had just killed a number of people, including one of my officers. And I expect you realise that in such circumstances it was the duty of the police to ensure that man did not escape us to kill again. I'd have made that shot myself, if I had the skill and the necessary weapon.

`Have you ever shot anyone?' asked the man in the business suit.

Skinner nodded.

`How did you feel?'

`Better than he did.

Peter Payne sensed that the mood needed lightening. `Come on, colleagues, let's have another question. Anyone want to ask about traffic wardens?'

`Sorry,' said Skinner. 'You are definitely not allowed to shoot them. Although, on occasion . .

Welcome laughter lightened the atmosphere.

Towards the rear of the room, a thin, middle-aged man raised a hand. 'Mr Skinner, could you say something about the level of co-operation these days between European police forces?'

`Yes. I'd say it's getting better — certainly within the EU. We're finding that it's easier for police colleagues in different countries to get together to solve problems. We're all working harder at it, I think. For example, my head of Special Branch now has general responsibility for international relations. And only this week, as you may have read, I was able to send a detective to Spain to advise the Guardia Civil in their search for a man we want to talk to back here about a current murder investigation.

`When he's caught, will it be easy to get him back?'

`Sure. The Spanish won't want to feed him for any longer than they have to.'

The questioner smiled. 'Can you tell me, if a person in this country feels that he may have been the victim of dishonesty in another country, can he make a complaint here?'

`Technically, no. As an investigator, I work for the Crown Office and the Procurator Fiscal. If the crime occurs abroad, then the complaint should be raised in that country. In
practice, if anyone on my patch feels that they may have been stitched up in a foreign country, then my department will certainly listen to them. If it is warranted, we might even raise the complaint on their behalf . . . unofficially of course.'

The bald man raised a hand again. 'Mr Skinner, about the traffic wardens . .

The question session ran on for a little longer, growing more light-hearted by the minute, until Peter Payne drew it to a close, eliciting a final round of applause for Bob's contribution to the evening. As the gathering broke up, Skinner noticed that the thin man who had spoken from the back of the room seemed to be holding back as if waiting. Peter Payne spotted him in the same moment, and beckoned him across.

`Bob, this is the chap I mentioned earlier,' he said as the man approached.

`Greg Pitkeathly,' said the thin man, shaking Skinner's hand.

`Pleased to meet you,' said Skinner.

`Tell me, am I right in thinking that your questions back there had some purpose to them?'

The man smiled, and nodded. 'Afraid so. I rather think I've been defrauded. Probably in Spain, but I'm not certain. Is there someone who'll speak to me?'

`If it's in Spain, and you're a L'Escala dweller, that makes it almost personal. I'll take a look at it myself.'

`That's very good of you. If you're sure of that, I've got a file on it all. When can I let you see it?'

`Well, if it'll keep till Tuesday, I'll be back in my office then. Why don't you call my secretary tomorrow and fix a time. Tell her where we met.'

Pitkeathly's thin face broke into a smile of gratitude. 'That's very good of you. I'll look forward to telling you my story. It seems almost too obvious to be a fraud but, the way the figures add up, I don't see any other answer.'

`Well, let's find out on Tuesday. I must go now, I'm in danger of being absent without leave!'

He shook Peter Payne's hand and hurried off, leaving Pitkeathly staring in some surprise at his disappearing back.