Bob Skiinner 21 Grievous Angel (12 page)

I smiled, though, and ruffled her carefully composed hair. ‘You keep on telling her that, but be sure you add that I’m going to get there first.’

‘Oh I do, but the glass ceiling’s there to be shattered.’

‘And you’re the woman to do it. You have a good night and don’t spare the gossip.’

‘No danger of that. Call me.’

We left together, each in our own car, but her Nissan was out of my sight in the Discovery by the time I reached Aberlady.

I arrived in the office at quarter to ten. McGuire, wearing black jeans and a muscle-hugging polo shirt, was at his desk, and Martin was waiting for me, his green eyes full of life. ‘It’s Saturday,’ I said, ‘and the rugby season’s over. But if it wasn’t . . .’

‘The job comes first, boss. I still play rugby at top club and district level, but I’ve told the national selectors that I’m no longer available.’ Recalling the awe in Alf Stein’s voice when he’d described the young man’s playing style, I realised that if he had taken that step, then I was looking at someone whose career ambitions matched Alison’s and mine.

‘Okay. I promise I’ll do my best not to let work interfere. What other games do you play?’

‘Squash and golf; that’s all.’

‘Me too. There’s a squash court in this building; we’ll need to work each other over some time.’ I turned to business. ‘Any calls since you got here?’

‘One from Stevie Steele. He and Brian have been down that manhole since eight. Bella’s been down to the shops for rolls and milk and the
Daily Record
, and there was someone with her. A very large bloke; a Chieftain tank on legs, Stevie said.’

I grinned at the answer to a question I’d been asking myself. How would Tony Manson have reacted to the news of Marlon’s murder? I’d come up with one proposition. He’d have had the same thought as me: like son, like mother? But he wouldn’t be relying on the police to protect his woman.

‘In that case, we don’t need to bother about her safety.’

McGuire looked at me. ‘You know who he is, sir?’

‘I do. He’s the best insurance policy I can think of.’

‘Did Manson send him?’ Martin asked.

‘Yes. I know where Tony is, Andy, and when he’ll be back. I’d like this business sorted out before he gets here, otherwise it will get messy.’ I headed for the door. ‘Come on, let’s knock a couple of doors. I’ll drive.’

I’d parked the Land Rover in front of the building rather than round the back. As we stepped outside I saw that the chief constable had arrived after me, and thanked my stars that I hadn’t nicked his space.

Martin tried to stay impassive when he saw my wheels, but couldn’t quite cut it. His eyebrows rose, very slightly, but they did. ‘Pile of old shit,’ I told him, ‘but it doesn’t stand out in a crowd. I put a couple of the dents in it myself, for added authenticity, so to speak. It’s reliable under the bonnet, though; our garage makes sure of that.’

The DC smiled. ‘It’ll never catch a getaway vehicle, though.’

‘It doesn’t have to, son,’ I pointed out. ‘It’s got a police radio in it.’

As I drove out of headquarters, into Fettes Avenue, my mind went back to Alison’s division’s open investigation. ‘Andy,’ I began, ‘do you live in Edinburgh?’

‘Yes. Haymarket.’

‘And you’re a young single guy, so you’ll get out and about?’

‘Yes.’

‘Got any gay friends? Or doesn’t your faith allow that?’

The question took him aback. ‘I’m not that Old Testament, boss. There’s a gay couple that are regulars in Ryrie’s Bar, part of the crowd. We’re not bosom buddies . . . bad choice of phrase . . . but we talk. Why?’

‘Do they ever say anything about anti-gay prejudice in Edinburgh? We’ve got this image as a tolerant society, but there are bigots everywhere. Is there a problem that we don’t know about?’

I glanced at him and saw him frowning. ‘Well,’ he replied, thoughtfully, ‘those blokes are body-builders, both of them, but one of them did say something about there being parts of the town where they always go together, just in case. Look, is this important? I’ve got a date tonight, but I could go into Ryrie’s early on, check if they’re there.’

‘Nah,’ I said. ‘Don’t do that. It’s not our business, just something I heard.’

‘Okay, but if it would help anyone, I’ll do it.’ He paused. ‘Where are we going, sir?’

‘We’re paying a house call,’ I told him, ‘on a man called Douglas Terry.’

‘Are you sure he’ll be in?’ he wondered.

‘A practical man, eh, Andy. I’m not certain, but I don’t think that Dougie sees much of the day before noon, not at the weekends, at any rate.’

‘What does he do?’

I had to think about that. ‘Do you read much?’ I asked him.

‘A bit.’

‘My dad brought me up on short stories,’ I said, ‘almost all of them American. He liked Thurber, Dorothy Parker and Damon Runyon, but his number one favourite was William Sydney Porter, who wrote under the pen name O Henry. Of all his stories, the one that’s stuck in my mind is called “Man about town”. That’s what I would call Dougie Terry . . . a man about town. You might call him a freelance. He does a bit of everything for everybody, but mostly he’s involved with a man called Jackie Charles.’

‘I know that name,’ Martin murmured.

‘You should. For a start, it’s over a big car showroom down in Seafield Road, specialising in high-value vehicles. But that’s his public face; he also owns a chain of bookie’s shops under the name John Jackson, and a couple of taxi firms, Carole’s Cabs, and Sherlock Private Hire. The first one’s called after his wife, the second he bought from Perry Holmes, the guy that Bella Watson’s brother Billy tried to kill.’

‘You seem to know a lot about him.’

‘Oh, I do.’ I felt my mouth tighten as I thought of Jackie Charles. He had been a neighbour of mine at one time, out in Gullane, before he went upmarket and bought a big pile in Ravelston Dykes. Myra and Carole were part of the same crowd of young women in a group called the Housewives’ Register . . . God knows who came up with that name . . . so we often went to the same parties. I’d found them a bit awkward, though, and eventually I stopped going; I’d stay home and babysit while Myra went without me. My hesitancy came from what, by that time, I’d learned about Jackie’s other activities. He was what might be called a business angel, in that he put up the capital, and lent organisational skills to entrepreneurial ventures. The problem was that these ventures were armed robberies, not just in the Edinburgh area but all over Britain, but Jackie was too smart ever to be linked to any of them.

I didn’t tell any of this to my young colleague though, not then, because it would have taken him into areas of my life that I wasn’t ready to share with him. ‘Dougie Terry works for Jackie,’ I said. ‘He looks after the below-the-parapet businesses, but he does other stuff as well, disciplinary matters, let’s say.’

‘Charles is bent?’

‘Charles is one of the two big players these days in organised crime in Edinburgh, the other being Tony Manson.’

Martin frowned. ‘Are you saying that he might have had Marlon killed?’

‘That’s what’s perplexing me,’ I confessed. ‘There’s a loose business relationship between Jackie and Tony. Charles stays out of the pubs, drugs and prostitution and Manson doesn’t step on his toes.’ As I spoke I pulled up outside a house in Clermiston Road. Once it had been council property, but now in the aftermath of the Right to Buy, it had been augmented with every build-on imaginable, save for a machine-gun turret. I parked behind a Ford Mondeo and across the driveway, blocking the exit of a Mercedes S class saloon, with a personalised registration plate.

I walked up to the door and gave it the policeman’s knock. Martin started to count, but I told him not to bother. ‘There’ll be nothing to hide in here.’ And then I smiled. ‘By the way, there’s something I forgot . . .’

Before I could finish, the door was opened by a slim woman in her late thirties with a soft perm and hard eyes. ‘Morning, Jane,’ I said. ‘We’d like a word with Douglas.’

‘I’m sure you would. Come in then.’ She didn’t argue about it; she’d got past that stage years before. ‘Douglas,’ she shouted, at the foot of the stairs. ‘Police.’

She opened the door to a well-furnished sitting room. ‘I’ll be off out,’ she declared. That was par for the course. On the three or four occasions that I’d rousted Dougie at home he’d always made her leave, so that under no circumstances could she be called to witness anything that might be said: super-cautious.

We waited for five minutes, before Terry appeared. He was around forty, stocky with heavy chiselled features and a chin that was in want of a shave. ‘Mr Skinner,’ he greeted me.

I nodded an acknowledgement. ‘This is DC Martin.’

Terry turned to him and offered his hand. As they shook, he said, ‘Good morning, son. Do you know what kippers are? Fish that need a lot of sleep. Did you like my wife? I first met her in the tunnel of love. She was digging it at the time.’

‘Dougie!’ I shouted. ‘Enough! What I was telling you on the doorstep, Andy; we call this guy the Comedian. Whenever our colleagues have him in for a chat, they ask him a question and he tells them a joke. That’s how it goes until they get pissed off and chuck him out. Chic Murray’s his favourite.’

‘Not always,’ said Terry, looking at me. ‘Did you hear the one about the couple in the old folks’ home?’

‘Dougie,’ I told him, seriously. ‘I am not your local CID; I’ve got no sense of humour. You try that routine with me, and I will knock your fucking head off. Then you’ll wish you’d had breakfast before we arrived.’

‘No fun you, big man,’ he grunted. ‘Sit down then.’ He sat, we followed suit. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘You can convince me that Jackie Charles didn’t have Tony Manson’s driver killed.’

I studied his face. His eyes widened, and his mouth opened for a second in a gasp. He didn’t put that on. ‘Now it’s you that’s fucking joking,’ he muttered.

‘You know me better than that.’

‘When?’

‘Very early Wednesday morning, in Infirmary Street Baths.’

‘That dead bloke was Tony’s guy?’ he exclaimed. ‘Are you fucking serious?’

He was scared, and that interested me.

‘That’s who it was. Whoever did it was very determined.’ Slowly and deliberately, I described how Marlon had died.

‘Jesus Christ,’ he said, when I was finished. ‘Are you sure it wasn’t Tony himself?’

‘I can’t be a hundred per cent certain that it wasn’t, but Tony’s rogering the boy’s mother. Plus, he’s sent big Lennie Plenderleith to bodyguard her until he gets back. So, Dougie, go on, tell me. Is Jackie upset with Manson over something?’

‘No,’ he insisted. ‘No way. Jackie’s fine wi’ Tony.’

He was rattled all right. If I had turned up on his doorstep asking that question, then it could only be a matter of time before Manson came to ask it as well, and his interrogation techniques weren’t subject to the same limitations as mine.

‘Then prove it to me,’ I challenged. ‘Get out there and ask questions. Two guys in a Transit van; we don’t know the colour and we don’t have the number, but that’s what they drove. Who are they and who were they working for? You’ll find me at Fettes; Serious Crimes office. Make it soon.’

We left him in his armchair, pondering the gloom that was darkening a sunny day outside.

‘Will we get anything from him?’ Martin asked.

‘We’ve got something already. From Terry’s reaction in there I know for sure that Jackie Charles isn’t involved. That’s a start. He might come up with something on the van. To be realistic, he’s got more chance than we have. There isn’t a door in Edinburgh that’s closed to him. He’s tight with Charles and he’s on fairly good terms with Manson. That gives him a lot of clout.’

I unlocked the Land Rover. The Mondeo had gone, probably in the direction of Jenners: Jane Terry was a designer dresser. ‘On to the next,’ I said.

‘Where’s that?’

‘Slateford.’

‘What’s in Slateford?’

‘The new generation.’

I drove across town, with the volume on the CD player turned up so that I didn’t have to talk. I was too busy thinking about Marlon, and what he’d known, or done, for him to die that way, thinking about Alison, and thinking about our next port of call. Eventually I pulled up outside a pub in Slateford Road. It was called Caballero’s, a fanciful name if ever I’d heard one, and it occupied much of the ground floor of a tenement building with three storeys of flats above.

‘Ever been here?’ I asked Martin.

He nodded. ‘About a month ago, with the rugby team, after a game at Myreside.’

‘You didn’t cause any trouble, I hope.’

‘None, boss. Most of the tales are exaggerated.’ He laughed. ‘Most of them.’

I led the way inside, and looked around. The place had been refitted since my last visit. The old island bar had gone, and had been replaced by one that ran most of the length of the back wall. There were booths on either side, but the floor was clear apart from two raised platforms, about four feet high, each with a pole in the centre running all the way up to the ceiling. There were no dancers in place though, too early for that, only a couple of barmen, one per customer.

‘What can I get you gents?’ one of them asked, in an accent that had not come from any part of the city or its environs. His black hair was slicked back and he wore a uniform that might have looked vaguely Spanish, to someone who’d never been to Spain.

‘You can get us Tomas,’ I replied.

‘He’s no’ in.’

‘My car’s parked next to his. Please don’t piss us about, mate, or I’ll be checking your immigration status.’

The barman’s face flushed, but before I had to lean any harder, a door opened beyond the serving area and a man stepped through it. He was young, still in his twenties and not much older than Martin, but he had the air of a leader about him, and a hint of danger too. ‘Mr Skinner,’ he exclaimed, in an accent similar to that of the barman, but with more edges knocked off. He extended a hand that carried, on the back, a tattoo of a man on a horse. We shook. ‘I saw you on the TV in my office. Welcome to Caballero’s. It’s good to see you.’

‘And you, Tomas. This is DC Martin; remember the name and the face.’