Thursday legends - Skinner 10 (37 page)

'Hector,
the present Marquis, reappointed us when he succeeded a little over ten years
ago. We've always done a little general practice conveyancing work, but the
bulk of our income flows from Kinture.'

'What
do you do for him?'

'I
manage his tenanted properties, of which there are a considerable number. My
duties include the preparation and execution of tenancy agreements, the
collection of rents, supervision, inspection and maintenance, legal actions
against rent defaulters and so on.'

'Where
are these properties?'

'There
are some in Perthshire and some in Clackmannan, but the bulk of the Marquis's
estate is in East Lothian. It includes Bracklands, Lord Kinture's main
residence, and the land on which the Witches Hill Golf and Country Club is
built. I'm not involved in the running of the club, though
...
God forbid.'

'You
collect rents, you said.'

'That's
right. Which brings me to the matter of the payment about which you asked the
slattern Molly on Friday. Can you explain the background to your request?'

'Certainly,
sir,' said Steele. 'About ten days ago a man named Alec Smith was murdered in
North Berwick. He was a former police officer and he lived alone. It was a very
brutal killing; you probably read about it.'

McCart
shook his head. 'No, Sergeant. If it didn't happen in Dundee, it didn't
happen.'

The
detective smiled, briefly. 'In any event,' he continued, 'in looking into the
victim's affairs, we found a standing order payable to your firm: twelve
hundred pounds, annually. His bank manager was under the impression that it was
a payment intended for Smith's estranged wife.'

'If
she is the occupant, then in a way that might be the case.'

'Occupant?'

The
little lawyer wrinkled his nose. 'There is a small part of the Kinture Estates
holding in East Lothian which lies apart from the rest. It is near the sea and
it is woodland, mainly, but within it, there is a small, fairly run-down,
one-bedroom cottage. About five years ago, Lord Kinture called me to Bracklands
and instructed me to prepare a tenancy agreement in respect of that property,
at a rent of one hundred pounds per month, payable annually in advance. The
name of the tenant on the agreement was John Green, but I noticed at once that
the first rent payment was drawn on the account of an Alexander Smith. There
was no clause in the lease specifying personal occupancy, so it is entirely
possible that a Mrs Smith does live there.'

'No,
sir,' said Steele. 'She doesn't, I assure you. Where is this cottage, exactly?'

'Near
the village of Dirleton. It bounds on to a place called Yellowcraigs.'

56

'So
Karen won't be in the office again, sir?'

'No,
Sam, she's gone: she has four weeks' leave owing; add on a couple of public
holidays and effectively, as of now, she's a civvy. You're going to be on your
own in here for a while, but as soon as Karen's officially off the strength
you'll move into her job and I'll pick someone to replace you. I'll invite
applications for the vacancy.'

'Very
good, sir. I'm sorry I didn't have a chance to wish her luck though. Say it for
me, will you. Good luck to you, too, of course.'

The
Head of CID smiled; 'As in "You'll need it", you mean? Tell her
yourself. Have dinner with us on Friday. I'll book a table somewhere.'

Sammy
Pye looked at his boss: there was something different about him, something very
different. It wasn't simply his pleasure at the turn of events with Karen, that
was self evident, but there was something else. He was quieter, less ebullient
than the Detective Constable had ever seen him, and he exuded an air of
...
relief. He saw the healing lip and the
fading bruises and he decided to ask no questions at all.

'Two
things, sir,' he said. 'First, Spike Thomson from Radio Forth called. He said
that Mr Skinner okayed you for his show and can you be there at half past two.'

'Jesus.
No-one told me things had gone that far. I'll do it, though. What's the second
thing?'

'Superintendent
Pringle, sir. He's outside. He wants a word before the Divisional CID Heads'
Monday gathering.' 'Show him in, then.'

Pye
nodded and left, to be replaced seconds later by Dan Pringle, looking
surprisingly bright-eyed for a Monday morning. 'What's this I hear?' he began.
'You and Karen?'

'Bloody
office grapevine,' Martin grunted. But he smiled nonetheless. 'True though.'

'Good
for you, Andy. She's a smashing girl.'

'Yeah.
And I've come to my senses at last. Was that all you wanted to see me about?'

The
Superintendent shook his head. 'No, no. I've been delving into the murky world
of investment management, and I wanted to talk to you about it. I've been
asking around town about this Paris Simons lot that the Bryant woman mentioned.
It seems that they and Daybelge are the Hibs and Hearts of the money business.'

'Or
the Montagues and Capulets?'

'What
league do they play in? Naw, they're serious rivals; hate each other's guts and
always have done. Paris Simons used to be kings of the midden, until Diddler
Shearer founded Daybelge. He knocked them off the top of the pile and they
hated him for it. Their senior partner's a bloke called Luke Heard. The
original Paris and Simons went to the bone yard a hundred years back. Everyone
seems to have liked the Diddler, but no-one's had a kind word to say to me
about Heard.

'The
Bank of Scotland held a piss-up for investment managers last Christmas in the
New Club. Apparently the guy got drunk and took a swing at the wee fella. He
was chucked out and told never to come back.

'Now,
six months later, Shearer's battered to death, and
Heard's
firm stands to benefit to the tune of fuck alone knows how many millions. So
just for a laugh, I asked Jack McGurk to check on all flights to Kuala Lumpur
from Sunday and over the next couple of days, for a booking in Heard's name.

'They
all came back blank, except for Cathay Pacific; they had nothing for the period
Jack asked about, but they volunteered the information that they flew a Mr L.
Heard to KL last Tuesday - three days before we identified Howard Shearer's
body, and even before that e-fit appeared in the press.'

57

'Damn
me: Bob Skinner! Susan! It's Bob Skinner.' He heard a shout from somewhere in
the background. 'Susan sends her love, to Sarah as well. What can I do for you?
You got some bigwig guests who'd like to play Witches Hill? No problem, if
that's it.'

'No,
it's nothing like that, Hector,' the DCC told the Marquis of Kinture. The
policeman and the wheelchair-bound aristocrat had crossed paths a couple of
years earlier, drawn together by crime, and a shared love of golf had cemented
their friendship. 'Where the hell are you, by the way? You can never tell, when
somebody's on a mobile.'

'We're
in the Florida Keys,' the Peer replied. 'Fancied a spot of sea-fishing; got to
find other pursuits now that the House of Lords is being put out of business.
I'm strapped in a chair with a bloody great rod in my hand even as I speak.
D'you fish, old chap?'

'Not
me. Haven't got the patience. If I can't hit it, or kick it, then I don't want
to play with it.'

Lord
Kinture laughed. 'Spend a few years in a chariot like mine. You'll do anything
for sport then.'

'Aye,
I suppose so. Actually, I am off my feet at the moment; got a leg in plaster.'

'Ah,
too bad. What happened to it?'

'It's
a long story. Listen, to come to the point; we've got an investigation going on
into the murder of an ex-copper named
Alec Smith.
One of my guys was up in Dundee this morning, interviewing a man who turned out
to be your estate factor, and he discovered that Smith leased a cottage from
you.'

Even
across three thousand miles of ocean, the silence was loaded. Even bounced off
a satellite, Skinner could hear the sudden exhalation. 'So someone's done for
Mr Alec Smith, have they? About bloody time too. Not in my cottage was it?'

'No,
in his own house.'

'How
was he killed?'

'In
an interesting variety of ways; he was tortured to death.'

'Appropriate,'
said Hector Kinture, with undisguised pleasure in his voice.

'Hold
on a minute,' Skinner exclaimed. 'If you hated Smith that much, why did you
rent him one of your properties, and get involved in the deal personally?'

'Because
the bloody man blackmailed me. I met him a few years back, when I had the Queen
and Prince Philip at Bracklands and he was involved in the security. Shortly
afterwards, he came to see me and told me that he was looking for a property;
a safe house, he called it. Said that he'd seen the empty place near
Yellowcraigs, that he'd found out I owned it and wanted to rent it from me.

'I
told him to bugger off. The place had been promised to my head gardener at the
big house as a retirement cottage; I was just about to start renovating it for
him.' Kinture let out a half-cough, half-snort. 'The man, your ex-colleague,
then produced a series of photographs of my brother-in-law. Don't want to say
too much with Susan not far out of earshot; she doesn't know any of this.'

'It's
all right; don't even mention his name. I know who he is. These photographs;
male or female?'

'Male.'

'So
you rented the place to Smith.' 'No choice.'

'You
could have come to me. I could have squashed him like a fly.'

'I
didn't know you then,' Kinture pointed out. 'So I did what he asked. He used a
false name on the agreement; I expected him to welch on the rent, but he
didn't. It was always paid on the dot. I couldn't take the chance, Bob; had to
protect Susan and her family.'

'I
understand that, man,' the policeman said. 'It's what you may have done to
others in the process that's worrying me.'

'God
forbid that I have, but frankly, Bob, the man intimidated me. Look, what can I
do to help you now?'

'Simple.
You can let my people enter that cottage without the need for a warrant. We
think we have the keys.'

'You've
got it. Do you want Gilbert McCart to be there?'

'Absolutely
not.'

'Fine
...'
the Marquis hesitated. 'Bob;
when you go in there, if you find anything, anything like
...
You will be discreet, won't you?'

Skinner
let out a quiet, grim laugh. 'Don't worry, Hector,' he promised. 'In this one,
discretion is the order of the day.'

58

'You
mean you don't plan your own programmes?' Andy Martin asked, gazing at a
computer monitor screen in a small, second-floor office in the Forth Street
radio headquarters.

'No
way,' Spike Thomson replied with a dismissive grin. 'We have what we call music
co-ordinators, two of them, who do all the programming for all the presenters.
I'm one; although my show's on Forth AM now, I do all the programming for our
FM station.'

'Christ,
how much of your day does that take up?'

'Less
than you think, Andy. We have our toys, you see. Watch.' He turned to the
keyboard on his desk. 'We have software that does most of it for us. We load
all of our play-list - that's all the music currently selected for airing - and
the computer makes a random selection for each hour, with everything timed.
Three tracks then a break, then another three and so on
...'

He
hit the Enter key and a programme schedule appeared on the screen.

'My
skill is in knowing where the computer's wrong. Some artists just don't fit
together. Look there, for example,' he pointed at the monitor, 'We're not going
to have two rap tracks on the trot.'

'One
on the trot's too much for me,' the detective chuckled.

'Ah,
but you're a red-neck polisman
...
not that I disagree, mind you.' He pulled another title from the play list and