Bob Skiinner 21 Grievous Angel (36 page)

‘That’s not the most common name in Edinburgh,’ I remarked. ‘In fact, I can only think of one.’

‘That’s right, boss. Derek Drysalter, the Hibs player. I’ve already checked with the council department that keeps the voters’ roll. There’s only one Drysalter household in Edinburgh. Derek and his wife, Alafair.’

‘Fucking hell, Mario,’ I chuckled. ‘Footballers’ wives. What does that old ram Manson think he’s at?’

‘Whatever it is, he’s a lucky bastard.’ He took a sheet from the file he was carrying and put it on my desk. ‘I know a guy on the
Evening News
picture desk,’ he said. ‘I can trust him to keep his mouth shut, so I took a chance and asked him to check their library. He faxed that across to me a couple of minutes ago.’

It was a photograph taken, going on some artwork in the background, at a Hibs gathering. The couple shown were in their early twenties, both dolled up in designer evening clothes. He was tall and lean, with the build you’d expect on someone who’d scored twenty-seven goals in the season past, more than half of them with his head. She was a stereotype, all blonde bouffant with professional make-up and wearing a dress that looked as if it was held up only by her nipples.

‘Jesus,’ I murmured. ‘Do we know where the boy Derek was while his wife was pole-dancing with Tony?’

‘At a training camp with the Scotland squad, for the American trip. He’ll be pissed off about missing it.’

Something in his tone made me glance up from the picture. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

He looked back at me, in surprise. ‘Haven’t you seen the papers this morning, boss? Derek Drysalter’s in hospital. Both his legs are broken and both his kneecaps are shattered; hit and run. He was out walking his dogs last night, near their house on Blackford Hill, and somebody whacked him and drove away.’

I stared at him. ‘You’re kidding, aren’t you?’

‘I wish I was,’ he sighed. ‘He’s a crackin’ player, even if his wife is a slag.’

‘Mario, I wasn’t doubting your word. I’m just wondering about a hit and run driver who’s so accurate that he managed to inflict exactly the injuries you’d want to put on a footballer, especially when the guy’s famously quick on his feet. Were the dogs hit?’

‘I don’t know, boss.’

‘Were there any witnesses to the accident? Did anyone see the car, or even hear it?’

‘I haven’t . . .’ It was as if I’d eaten his apple and wanted a punnet of strawberries to follow.

‘No, of course not; because you haven’t had time, or been told to do it. No blame. We have to interview Derek Drysalter. From Blackhall they’d have taken him to the Royal for sure. Check that he’s still there.’ I frowned as I recalled something from the sporting almanac in my head. ‘Mario,’ I said, ‘I’m no Hibbie, but wasn’t he a big signing for them last summer?’

‘Yes, a record. They broke the bank for him.’

‘And they signed him from?’

‘Newcastle United.’

‘Wow,’ I murmured. ‘You confirm where Drysalter is, then find out who’s investigating the hit and run, and tell them I want to know what they’ve achieved so far. While you’re doing that, I’ve got a call to make, and then we’re off to see the victim, whether he’s receiving visitors or not.’

As he left to get on with his task, I picked up the phone and called Northumbria CID. DI McFaul was in his office when they put me through. I could tell by just one word, ‘Yes!’ that he was harassed.

‘Ciaran, Bob Skinner, Edinburgh.’

‘Oh, sorry, sir, didn’t mean to be rude.’

‘You’re entitled. No progress, then.’

‘No,’ he replied, ‘and my boss is giving me shit.’

‘I know the feeling. Listen, I need to ask you something, just between you and me. It’s a favour, and it needs to be handled very discreetly, since the guy involved is high profile. The footballer, Derek Drysalter. You may have heard that he had an accident last night.’

‘Yes. From what I read he’ll be lucky if he ever plays again.’

‘I may have a say in that,’ I told him. ‘I’d like you to check something for me, and I repeat, very quietly. When he was at St James’s Park, was he connected with Winston Church, in any way, or was a link even suspected?’

‘Footballers attract a lot of hangers-on,’ he said, ‘and in turn some footballers hang on to a lot of funny people. I’ll have a look.’

I left him to it and went back into the general office. McGuire was still on the phone, so I waited for him to finish. ‘He’s not in the Royal any more, boss,’ he told me. ‘He’s been transferred to the Murrayfield, the private hospital. His consultant’s a man called Jacobs.’

‘Then I’d like to talk to him: the consultant, that is.’

‘That’ll be easy enough, boss.’ He grinned. ‘His secretary says that he wants to speak to us. He’s due to operate on Drysalter at midday, so I’ve made an appointment for you at eleven.’

‘For us, you mean. You’re coming with me.’

He beamed; I’d never seen greater enthusiasm. ‘The investigation into the accident’s being run out of St Leonards,’ he volunteered. ‘They’re still trying to trace the vehicle involved, but they’ve got no witnesses other than Drysalter himself, and his description’s vague. He was found in a pretty deserted street, on the way up to the Royal Observatory, by a man from a house over a hundred yards away. He was screaming loud enough for him to hear above the telly, even from that distance.’

‘Who’s running the investigation?’

‘DS Varley’s in charge.’

‘Not any more he isn’t. Tell Jock that it ties into one of ours, and ask them to send over all the paperwork he’s generated so far.’

‘Will he take that from me, boss? I’m just a front office plod to him.’

‘No, you’re DC McGuire, Serious Crimes. That’s how you introduce yourself, then you ask him, nicely.’

The Murrayfield was a general purpose hospital; it catered for most ailments of the well-to-do in Edinburgh, and of those with occupational health insurance. At first sight it was a smaller version of the hotel that was its neighbour on Corstorphine Road. As we stepped out of the Discovery, an elephant trumpeted; the site was next to Edinburgh Zoo. I’d often wondered whether patients coming out of anaesthetic wondered whether they’d woken up in Africa.

At first sight Derek Drysalter’s consultant might have been an exhibit himself. He was a bear of a man, about my height, and still as muscular in the shoulders and arms as a weightlifter, although he must have been pushing sixty. ‘Paul Jacobs,’ he said as we were shown into his consulting room.

He went straight to the point once the introductions were over. ‘I’m intrigued that we should be calling each other about this, Superintendent. What prompted you, may I ask?’

I wanted frankness from him, so I didn’t hold back. ‘Your patient has become involved in a live investigation on our books. Whether it’s as a suspect or just as an injured party, we don’t know yet, but in the circumstances I need to be certain of the facts of the case.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ the surgeon replied. ‘If this is a hit and run, then the driver’s the most meticulous I’ve ever seen. Take a look.’ He rose, walked across to a lit viewing box, and placed an X-ray exposure on it.

‘This shows a fracture of the right femur, the thigh bone. The impact was from the side, so if this was a car, he was half-turned towards it. The man is six feet one inches tall, so again, if this injury came from a vehicle, it was either a lorry, or it had bull bars fitted.’ He removed the print and replaced it with two more.

‘This is where the so-called driver got really clever. There are fractures to the tibia and fibula of both legs, and both patellae are completely shattered, beyond repair. Since Mr Drysalter would have been unable to stand after the first impact, whichever it was, the driver must have hit him at least twice when he was in mid-air. Stuff and nonsense! The gentleman was attacked by people wielding metal bars or, more commonly these days, baseball bats, in a way that caused maximum damage without putting his life in danger. There are no injuries other than those I’ve shown you; no cuts, no scrapes, no broken skin. That on its own would make a nonsense of the hit and run notion. I don’t have any ethical problem telling you this, incidentally. It’s what I would say if I was called to give evidence in any criminal or civil hearing.’

‘Have you said this to him?’ I asked.

‘That’s not my job; I have to deal with what’s on the table, not establish how it got there. I’ve been instructed by his employer to try to save his career, but if I do, it’ll be the finest achievement of mine. Apart from rejoining the fractures, and at least two of them will need pinning, I’m going to have to rebuild both knees, repair the damaged ligaments and replace both kneecaps. With luck, he’ll be able to walk without crutches in six months, maybe even jog in a further year, but football? No.’

I saw McGuire frown. ‘That’ll be a calamity for the supporters,’ I said, ‘like this one here. Can we talk to him before you operate? I don’t imagine he’ll be up to much for a while afterwards.’

‘Yes, you may; he’s still in his room. He’s full of diamorphine, but he won’t have had his pre-med yet, so he’ll still be compos mentis.’

I thanked the consultant. His secretary led us from his office to a wing on the other side of the building, stopping at a door with the number five. ‘This is Mr Drysalter’s room,’ she announced, and was about to open the door when I stopped her.

‘Fine, thanks,’ I said. ‘But I need to speak to someone before we go in.’ I dug out my mobile and called McFaul. ‘Got anything for me yet?’

‘As much as I’m going to,’ he replied. ‘There was a link between Winston and your footballer when he was down here. Church owned a small bookmaking chain, and Drysalter liked the horses, and the dogs, and occasionally two flies crawling up a wall.’

‘Was he good at it?’

‘Are those lads ever any good? The word is he dropped a million into the old Prime Minister’s pocket. Most of his signing-on fee when he was transferred went to clear off his debts.’

‘Habits like that are hard to kill. Thanks, Ciaran. That’s very useful information.’

‘Do you really think this could be our man?’ McFaul asked.

‘No, but at this moment, I’m not ruling him out completely. I’ll know more in about ten minutes.’

I ended the call, knocked on the door of room number five and walked in. The footballer was alone, propped up on pillows in a hospital bed, his mangled legs protected by a cage. His hair was dishevelled and the stubble on his chin emphasised his paleness. He looked round as we entered and I could see chemically controlled agony in his eyes.

When I told him who we were, he moaned. ‘Oh, not just now, please.’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Drysalter, but it has to be. You’re going to be post-op for a while and this can’t wait. We need to find the people who worked you over.’

Fear mixed with the pain. ‘It was a hit and run,’ he protested. ‘I told the other cops.’

‘You lied to the other cops, son. Don’t try it on with me. I’ll make this as quick as I can, and then you can go to sleep for as long as you like. How did you come to know Tony Manson?’

I could see him shrink into himself very slightly, as if he was accepting something inevitable. ‘I’m a member of his casino.’

‘Given your gambling record in Newcastle, I’ll bet he was glad to see you. How much do you owe him?’

‘About forty grand. I’ve got a limit now.’

‘Does your wife go there with you?’

‘Quite often, yes.’

‘Did you tell her to be nice to Tony?’ I asked.

For the first time he looked something other than beaten. ‘No! What the fuck do you mean by that?’

‘How long has her affair with Manson been going on?’

‘What do you mean?’ he gasped. I had an uncomfortable feeling that I really had surprised him.

‘Come on, you know she’s been playing away.’

‘Yes.’ His voice cracked a little. ‘I’ve suspected for a wee while. But I didn’t think it was with Tony, honest to God. No, I don’t believe that.’

‘When did you know about her for sure?’

‘I found out when the kennels rang to confirm a booking for the dogs, while I was away with the Scotland team. I took the call, and I knew something was funny. She’d never said anything about going away. I didn’t let on afterwards that I knew about the booking, and she never mentioned it.’

‘And you are still saying that you didn’t know she was going away with Manson?’

‘I didn’t, honest.’

‘Winston Church. When was the last time you saw him?’

‘Last summer, when I gave him a wedge of money to square off what I owed him.’

‘A million, I heard.’

‘And a bit.’

‘He let you run with that size of debt?’

‘I am who I am, mister. I earn silly money.’

‘I suppose,’ I conceded. ‘You haven’t seen him since.’

‘No.’

‘And you don’t know he’s dead?’

‘He’s what? When?’ I was looking into his eyes, and I believed him.
Fuck!
I thought.

‘Yes. He was murdered, a couple of days ago.’

‘Jesus.’

‘So,’ I continued, ‘you went off to your training camp, without asking your wife where she was going?’

‘Right. I was going to, but I bottled it. I . . . nothing.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing, flash of pain that’s all.’

‘When did you come back?’

‘Late Sunday afternoon.’

‘Where was the camp?’

‘Dubai.’

‘Did you go for the dogs? We know that your wife wasn’t back then.’

He shook his head. ‘No. I went straight to a supporters’ dinner in the King James Hotel. I was picking up a Player of the Season award, and it was the only night that suited. I got home at half past ten; Alafair was home and so were the dogs.’

I pointed to the cage. ‘So why this?’

‘I don’t know,’ he muttered.

‘With respect,’ I said, ‘that’s bollocks.’

‘Fuck you. I’m not saying anything about it, okay?’

‘Who attacked you? Or aren’t you saying that either?’

‘Too fucking right I’m not. You can sit on my legs and I still won’t tell you. I don’t know him anyway.’

‘Him?’ I exclaimed. ‘One man did all that?’

Drysalter pursed his lips and stared at the cage. ‘Nothing,’ he whispered.