Thursday legends - Skinner 10 (18 page)

'Ruth,'
he said, as the call was answered, 'it's Andy Martin. Listen, about Saturday
night
...'

'You
want to call it off,' she replied, at once.

'I
think I should.'

He
heard her chuckle. 'Why am I not surprised? When I mentioned it to Karen, it
was as if a freezer door had opened next to me. It's okay, really; I hadn't
read anything into Saturday.'

'Of
course not, but still
...
Look, this
has got nothing to do with Karen
...'
He stopped at once, recognising his lie. 'Well yes, it has, but it isn't all
about her.'

'Then
God help her, Andy. She's a really nice girl and, if you'll pardon my French,
she doesn't need to be fucked around. It might not look it, but I'm a lot
tougher than she is. I could have a one-night stand with you and think no more
of it. Karen might put on a front, but that's all it is. Be kind to her,
please.'

'I
will, Ruthie, I will. Honest.' He replaced the phone in its cradle, and stared
at it for long, silent seconds, willing it to ring and distract him. It did.

'Andy,
Dan Pringle. Sorry to bother you, but I've had Alan

Royston
here with his shirt-tail on fire. Someone's been talking to the papers about
the Water of Leith investigation, giving away all sorts of stuff. Get hold of
today's
News
and you'll see what I mean; it's right on the
front page.

'I've
had an on-the-spot investigation here, and
I'm
satisfied that the leak didn't come from this office. The guy who wrote
the story was Jack McGurk's brother-in-law, but Jack's promised me it wasn't
him, and the guy's called me to confirm that.'

Martin
frowned. 'So are you suggesting that it came from my office?'

'No,
no, no,' said the Superintendent, hurriedly. 'I'm just telling you, that's
all.'

'Good,
because my staff know bugger all about the detail of that case - so that would
leave me as the source. And if you're suggesting—'

'I'm
not, for fuck's sake,' Pringle protested. 'I'm just telling you this because
Royston asked me to. Look it was probably one of the divers, okay. Or a
paramedic. Or a porter at the Royal, even. I'll investigate it further and
report back to you.' The veteran growled. 'Christ, another burning shirt-tail.'

The
Head of CID was grateful for an opportunity to laugh. 'All right, Dan, I'll run
some water on it,' he promised. 'Keep me in touch.'

He
hung up and dialled Alan Royston's office, asking his assistant to bring him a
copy of the
Evening News.
When it arrived he spotted the offending story at
once. He read it, once, then again, then a third time.

When
he put the newspaper down, his forehead was locked in a frown and his vivid
green eyes, in their tinted contact lenses, were blazing like emeralds.

22

'Do
you ever think that our lifestyle might be bad for us?' Maggie Rose gazed at
her husband across their small garden table. She was wearing a loose-fitting
cotton shirt, bra-less, and denim shorts, an outfit as different from her
business clothes as she could find, and the remnants of supper lay between
them.

'What?
Living off carry-out pizzas?' he said, with a disarming grin. 'We only do it
once a week; that's hardly excessive.'

She
raised an eyebrow. The evening sun shone on her rich, red hair as it fell
across her forehead; it was dark, almost blood-like. Most people thought it was
a tint, but Mario knew otherwise. Most people thought of Mags as serious and
straightlaced, but he knew differently there too. She was deep, was Mrs
McGuire, a bottomless sea in whom the big, tough Irish-Italian detective had
swum lovingly since first they had met.

'Don't
be flip,' she said. 'You know what I mean. I'm talking about our jobs; you in
Special Branch, me in CID. Aren't you ever afraid that they might take us
over?'

He
laughed. He was in shorts also; tailored, with big pockets on each side.
Strands of thick, black, curly chest hair had forced their way though his white
tee-shirt. 'If you're suggesting I get a transfer to traffic, you're not on.'

She
laid her glass on the table, smiling inside of herself. 'Mario!'

He
reached over and took her hand; as he drew it towards him, he saw the scar. It
was fainter than it had been, but it was still there. For all the surgeon's
reassurances, he knew that it always would be, just as he would always carry a
mark of his own on his chest, beneath the mat of hair. 'Maggie,' he answered.
'I love my job. It's fascinating and at times it's exciting. But I love you a
hell of a lot more. If I ever thought it was any sort of a threat to you and
me, I'd chuck it in a second
...
or I
really would get a transfer to traffic.

'You
feel the same way about yours too; so instead of seeing it as a potential
problem, look at it from another perspective. Look at the commonality of
interest it gives us.'

She
nodded; more of her hair fell forward, throwing her face into shadow. 'I
suppose so. Just promise me one thing, though: promise me that you won't stay
too long in Special Branch.'

He
released her hand and reached for his glass. 'Why do you say that?'

'What
else? Alec Smith: the way he ended up. Mario, what if that was related in some
way to the job he did? Your job now.'

'Hey,
kid. The day I find myself turning into Alec, I transfer out. And that takes us
back to the subject of this conversation. Alec never talked to anyone, other
than Bob Skinner and his predecessor, and then only when he had to. He didn't
go home to Mrs Alec and unburden himself; he was so remote, so wrapped up in it
that it made her leave him.' He paused, and shivered in the evening sun. 'And
it made him into what?' he mused, in a whisper.

'What
do you mean?' she asked.

'I
don't know, love. I don't know.' He picked up the Chianti,
topped
up Maggie's glass, and poured the last of the bottle into his own.

'See
that lass Cowan?'

'Alice?
Yes. I've been asked if I'd like her in CID. I'd take her in a minute, but I'll
leave the decision for Brian when he gets back from holiday. I'd rather he had
the argument with her line commander.'

'You
rate her then?'

'Very
much. She's very sharp'.

'She
thinks for herself, and doesn't say any more than she needs to?'

'Yes,
I'd say that.'

'I
might save Superintendent Mackie from that Barney, then.'

'What?
You mean you might pinch her?' 'If she comes through vetting okay, yes. There's
someone I've got to move out.' 'Who's that?'

'Tommy
Gavigan: the old DC. He's blown out and he's got to go now; I've sent him on
leave already and I won't have him back. He's forty-seven with just over two
years to go to retirement, so we'll give him the extra time on his pension
rights and let him leave early. I told Big Bob this as soon as I'd interviewed
Gavigan, so it's as good as done. If Whitlow the bean-counter moans about the
cost, he'll get told.

'Something
else too, that should please you. In future nobody does more than five years in
Special Branch
...
ever. That comes
from the Gaffer himself

Maggie
looked at him carefully. 'I'm glad to hear that; but Gavigan's an old soldier.
You sure you want to replace him with a youngster like Alice? She's only
twenty-four.'

'I'm
absolutely sure, because she
is
a youngster, she's uncorrupted, a
breath of fresh air, and I need that in SB.'

'What's
brought this on? Am I allowed to know?'

'I
don't suppose you are but I'll tell you, because you couldn't do anything about
it afterwards even if you wanted to. The Boss wouldn't let you.'

He
told her the stories of Lawrence Scotland and Shakir Basra. When he was
finished, she let out a long, low whistle. 'You were asked to get a handle on
Alec Smith, Inspector. You've surely done it, haven't you? I can see why you
want Gavigan out.'

Mario
nodded. 'Aye, it'll make it easier to use him as bait.' 'Uh?'

'Think
about it. If Lawrence Scotland has finally plucked up the courage to get even
with Smith, isn't there a chance that he might go for Gavigan as well,
especially if he's off the job? Even as we speak, the man's under
surveillance.'

'And
this Lawrence Scotland is one of the two possibilities you mentioned earlier.
Who's the other?'

'One
Gus Morrison; a would-be tartan terrorist.'

'Do
you like either of them for it?'

'Couldn't
say yet, any more than you could. I'll know when I've had a look at them.'

'What
are you going to do?'

'Pick
them both up; interrogation plus psychiatric evaluation. It takes a special
man to burn off someone's balls with a blowlamp and make a movie while he's
doing it. If it was either of them, we'll know.'

'And
what if it wasn't?'

'Then
the SB files have come up blank. There's no-one else.'

'And
we're back where we started.'

He
grinned, as Maggie's face fell. 'Not quite. There's still Alec's personal
papers; all the things that were taken from the house. They have to be gone
through.'

'Where
are they now? I haven't seen them in the van.'

'Too
right you haven't; Christ knows what could be in there. No, I've got them.' He
jerked a thumb back towards the house. 'In there, in my big briefcase.'

'You
took them way from the investigation?' she exclaimed, indignantly.

'Special
Branch prerogative, my dear. Our man, our files.'

'Time
you shared them then. Come on, Mario, I'm supposed to be in charge of this
investigation, but it seems as if it's you who's running it, really.' She stood
and pushed back her plastic chair. 'Go on; get into the house and fetch that
briefcase.'

'Okay,'
he agreed. 'DCI or not, I may have to kill you once you've seen it, but we'll
discuss that later.'

He
led the way through the patio doors, into the small sitting room of their
Miller villa, and fetched the briefcase from the hall. He opened it and took
out a thick sheaf of material, which he laid on the long low coffee table which
was set in front of their sofa.

'Have
you looked at this yourself yet?' she asked.

'No,
I gave priority to the SB file check.'

He
picked a folder from the top of the pile, opened it and began to flick though
its contents. 'Household bills. Gas, leccy, and rates. All in sequence.' A
second folder. 'Telephone bills; BT and Orange. As far as I can see none of
them are very big, but I'll check them out tomorrow - the itemised ones at any
rate - and see if any numbers jump out at us.'

He
picked up the next folder; it was lever-arched, and split into sections.
'Pension papers,' he said, after a few seconds perusal. 'Police stuff, and
interest and dividend notices from other investments. Then bank statements and
correspondence.'

Maggie
looked at the coffee table, at the last thick brown folder which lay there. She
reached across and opened it. 'Photographs,' she murmured. 'Just dozens of
bloody photographs.'

Mario
picked up the collection and looked through it, print by print. They were all
seven-by-five colour photographs, and their content varied. Some were beach
shots, some rural, some of Edinburgh scenes, one or two indoors. They were all
clear and sharp, as if they had been taken on high-quality equipment, by an
expert. And each print was numbered and dated; not an automatic camera feature
on the picture itself, but handwritten annotations on the reverse side.

He
frowned as he looked through them again. 'Funny,' he murmured. 'No two dates
are the same. They're in number and date order, but there's no other sequence
to them. He seems to have taken his camera out on a whim, then he seems to have
picked the best of his shots on each day for this file.'