Bob Skiinner 21 Grievous Angel (42 page)

As it happened, it didn’t matter. ‘Fate’s working for you on two fronts,’ she said. ‘The Met Office have given the North Sea operators a bad weather warning for Wednesday, and possibly Thursday as well. All routine flights to platforms have been cancelled.’

‘I can smell another weekend on the water looming up for us.’

She laughed. ‘I thought that was on the cards anyway. I’ve been expecting you to take me looking at boats.’

‘We’ve got four years to wait, remember, but I suppose we could start with something small.’ What a difference a day made. Less than twenty-four hours before I hadn’t been joking.

She went all Robert Burns on me. ‘
Nae man can tether time or tide
,’ she quoted. ‘When I see you try, I’ll stop believing that, but not before.’

I couldn’t come up with a poetic counter. ‘Until then you could take up golf,’ I suggested.

‘You’ll roast me on a spit first,’ she replied, cheerfully. ‘How did Lowell’s tip play out?’ she asked.

‘Pure gold, my love, pure gold.’

‘Stop calling me that, it’s unsettling. I’m glad you’re still moving forward, for I’m bloody stuck. If you were being objective, you’d have removed me from the investigation by now.’

‘Alastair Grant would love me to do that,’ I chuckled. ‘He can wait, though. You just need a bit of good fortune. Tell you what, you can swap Hugh Grant’s kid brother for McGuire if you like. He’s my lucky charm just now.
Cherchez la femme
indeed.’

As I hung up, I felt the first pangs of hunger. There was still time to go up to the big boys’ dining room. That seemed like a good idea, but just as I rose from my chair, my mobile sounded.

No preliminaries. ‘I’ve got your car, sir,’ Ciaran McFaul announced. ‘It’s a shit camera, but there’s a clear shot of it arriving at eleven twenty-three, and leaving eleven minutes later. The driver’s a lean guy, and judging by his height against the vehicle, he’s around six feet. There is no chance of an identification, though. He’s wearing a black garment with a hood, SAS-style.’

‘That figures. Thanks, Ciaran.’

‘I should be thanking you,’ he said. ‘This is our investigation you’re working on. I want to be involved from now on, sir.’ He sounded serious. I sensed that I might be on the way to being sandwiched between two warring chief constables, but there was still the major problem of the earlier leak.

I stalled him. ‘Let me think about it.’

‘What’s to think about? You know who the man is, don’t you?’

‘I know who owns the car,’ I admitted, ‘but . . . Look, the same man is most probably responsible for ordering a murder here. I’m still staking a prior claim to him.’

‘I should be there, nonetheless,’ he insisted.

When I thought about it he was right, but not on procedural grounds. He had information and if he took it into his own inquiry, might word not get back to the other side, as quickly as it had before? But what if McFaul was the leak himself? Shit!

I made a decision; I had to trust somebody. ‘Okay,’ I agreed, ‘but this is how it’s going to work. Who’s viewed this recording with you?’

‘Nobody,’ he replied. ‘I’m at the hotel now, on my own.’

‘Then get in your car and drive straight up here. Come to my office in police headquarters. Come on your own, and don’t tell anyone. When you get here you can phone your boss and tell him that you’ve had a tip about something, anything, I don’t give a fuck what but not this investigation, and that you need to go undercover.’

‘Are you kidding?’ He laughed, incredulously. ‘He’ll skin me. Why the hell should I do that?’

‘Because I haven’t located this guy yet, and I don’t want him to be tipped off before I do, as he has been once before.’

‘Hey,’ he snapped, ‘are you saying—’

‘Shut up. I’m telling you what happened, but I’m not blaming anyone, not yet. That’s the deal. That’s what I want you to do. I’m trying to reach out here and grab the untouchable, and nobody is going to get in the way, or I’ll be grabbing them. If you’re coming, drive; if you’re not, keep your fucking mouth closed in your office. Which is it to be?’

I listened to the silence as he made up his mind. ‘Have you got a job for me in your CID,’ he asked, ‘if I get busted back to uniform?’

I chuckled softly. He was what I liked, detective first, cop second. ‘Ciaran, I’ll find a slot here for you regardless, if you want it.’

‘In that case, I’ll see you in three hours, maybe less if the tunnel’s flowing smoothly.’

It was the best solution I could devise. Cross-border wrangles are always a pain, but I knew that I’d have to involve my English colleagues sooner or later, leak or no leak. Inviting McFaul to join me was a step towards that, and the way I’d done it took him out of play for up to three hours, time enough, possibly, to run Peter McGrew to ground.

Holmes’s son might have proved elusive, but he existed and I had something to pin on him. There was no way he could know it either at that stage, and that worked to my advantage. But to arrest him, I had to find him. How to do that? Yes, I could have driven up to Perry Holmes’s place and demanded that he hand over his secret son. Sure, and that would have got me precisely nowhere. But maybe I wouldn’t need to.

My next stop was Blackford Hill, back to see Alafair. I suspected that it might be more confrontation than conversation, so I decided to take a female officer along. But which one? The closest was DC Shannon, Alf Stein’s gopher. I called him and asked if he could spare her.

‘Christ,’ he grumbled. ‘What is it with Serious Crimes just now? I’ve had your secondee Higgins on looking for her, not just once but twice, mind you . . . and Grant’s giving me grief about his DI being away from his team. Now you’re wanting Dottie as well?’

He was in ‘awkward old bastard’ mode, but I levered him out of it by telling him what had happened in my investigation and why I wanted her.

‘Holmes has kids?’ he exclaimed. ‘He’s a fucking dy-nasty?’ (He’d been a fan of the TV series and mangled the word as it had.) ‘Sure, you can have her. It sounds like a good cause.’

I had planned to go up to Blackford in the Discovery as usual, but I changed my mind, and commandeered a marked police vehicle instead, complete with blue light. That’s never been my favourite mode of transport but I felt that it suited the circumstances. I didn’t want to turn up quietly at Alafair Drysalter’s door, not for a second time. I let Martin drive, with DC Shannon in the back. I knew her well enough since I was a regular in her boss’s office, but she and Martin had never met before. Each seemed fairly impressed by the other.

Alafair had remembered to lock the gates. I had to press the entryphone button. ‘Yes?’ She sounded annoyed, impatient.

‘Police,’ I announced. ‘Detective Superintendent Skinner and colleagues.’

‘Oh, go away, will you!’ she shouted.

‘We’re coming in, one way or another,’ I told her evenly. ‘So choose the easy option.’

After a few seconds, she did. There was a buzz, Martin pushed the gate and it opened. The Afghans were in the garden. They came bounding up to us, barking, their long, high-maintenance coats flying. They’d lost whatever hunter instincts the breed was supposed to have. They were friendly, designer pooches that would have been as much use as guard dogs as the hamster I’d bought Alex when she was six. Shannon made a fuss of them and they fell in with us as we walked up to the door.

Alafair was waiting for us, on the threshold. Any traces of her bruising was covered by make-up, her hair was salon set, and she wore a gold lounge suit that made me think of
Hello!
magazine. ‘What the hell’s this?’ she snapped. ‘Three this time? Look, I don’t give autographs, okay. Where’s the other young guy? He was nice.’

‘This is his day for helping old ladies across the street,’ I replied. ‘Or for taking young ones off it. Invite us in. You need to talk to us.’

‘Like hell I do,’ she retorted, ‘but if you insist, come on. Sasha, Pasha, you stay.’ The dogs fell back, obediently.

The house was the type that estate agents were once fond of describing as ‘architect designed’, all flashy features, but not, at first sight, comfortable. The room into which she led us was enormous: one wall was all glass, a picture window, with doors set in it, that looked up towards the Royal Observatory, and there was an upper level that the sales brochure might have called the ‘Minstrel Gallery’. The furniture was there to be admired rather than for comfort.

‘What do you want?’ she asked. ‘Why are you hassling me? Have you found the driver yet?’

‘There was no driver, Alafair, as you know very well. Now it’s my turn to ask you a question. Has Tony told you about Marlon?’

‘Who the hell is Marlon?’

‘His driver. A lad about your own age. Solidly built kid, not too smooth, very Edinburgh. I’m guessing he might have picked you up sometimes when you were going to meet Manson. I don’t imagine the Ibiza trip was your only encounter.’

He tossed her head back. ‘Ah,’ she said, airily, hamming it up like the failed actress she was. ‘That boy. Was that his name? What about him?’

‘He’s rather dead, I’m afraid.’

That wasn’t in the script. ‘What do you mean?’ she exclaimed.

‘I mean he’s not breathing any more,’ I snapped. ‘I mean he’s starting to go off. I mean he’s in a box, paid for by Tony for sure, waiting to be put in a hole in the ground. Is there anything about being dead that you don’t understand?’ Out of the corner of my eye I could see Dorothy Shannon flinch, but I was off and running. ‘Your question should have been “How did he die?” Answer, somebody killed him. Next question, “But why, the poor boy?” Answer, because of you!’

‘Me?’ she squealed; ex tempore she was lousy.

‘Yes, Alafair, you.’ I took my voice back down to normal. ‘This is how it happened. You’d been playing about with Manson for a while, and maybe others but I’m only concerned with him. He asked you to go with him for a week to Ibiza, while your husband was away with his international mates. You agreed, but then you did something fairly stupid . . . the norm for you, I imagine . . . and Derek found out. He didn’t have the nuts to face you about it, so he called your dad, the father-in-law that he thinks is a nice guy, Perry, Mr Holmes.’ The make-up changed shade as the skin beneath it paled.

‘He asked him for help, and your dad in turn asked you what you were playing at. You told him it was none of his business. He asked you who you were playing with, you told him, and you probably said there was nothing he could do about it, the poor old quadriplegic cripple.’ I paused.

‘Good, you’re not contradicting me. I’ve got it right. Now,’ another pause, ‘here’s what happened next. Your dad can’t move much, but he’s still got a long arm. He reached out, to an old associate in Newcastle, and he hired two men, thugs, brutes, musclemen. They came up to Edinburgh, they got hold of Marlon, and they killed him. I spent some time thinking they were trying to get information from him, but I don’t believe that any more. I reckon they just killed him, pure and simple, to order. You see, Manson himself is too difficult a target, and he might also be too financially important to your dad to be killed. But the word was sent. “Play around with my nearest and dearest and this is what happens to yours.” So act your way out of that one, kid. You indulged yourself, and a boy died. How does it feel, Alafair?’

She sat down, abruptly, on one of her designer chairs, then reached out for a box on a table, and found a cigarette and a lighter. I took them from her. ‘Not while I’m in the room, please. I detest the habit.’ I did and I always will, but that was a . . . a smokescreen, if you like; at that moment I didn’t want her finding any crumb of comfort.

‘What do you want me to say?’ she murmured. ‘Because I won’t. I know whose daughter I am, Mr Skinner.’

‘Yes, I thought you might. But know what? There’s another twist. I don’t believe that Derek slapping you around had anything to do with him being attacked. Way I see it, Perry sent Tony a message, and Tony sent him one back. Christ, he told me as much, before I really knew why. Now they’re quits and Manson won’t be lifting your skirts again, lady.’

‘Tough,’ she whispered. ‘I won’t be missing much.’

‘The story’s not done yet, though,’ I told her. ‘The Newcastle guys were sloppy. They used a traceable van and we got on to them. Your father found out about that. It was a problem for him; if we caught these men, and they talked . . . you can see, can’t you? So he took action, and now they’re dead too. You might not have had a memorable shag with old Tony, but it sure had consequences.’

She snatched the fag and the Zippo from my hand and lit up. I opened the glass doors.

‘Thanks,’ she said, tight-lipped, and it wasn’t for the fresh air. ‘I didn’t know any of that, apart from the first bit, about Derek crying to my dad, instead of setting his football team on Tony. But even if it’s true, I won’t help you.’

‘Have you always been so fucking self-centred?’ I asked her. ‘You’d be no use to us as a witness. I’m not interested in you, Alafair. It’s your brother I want. Your dad couldn’t have done all that stuff on his own. He can’t even make a phone call unaided any more. In the old days your Uncle Alasdair was his executive arm, so to speak. Now he’s dead. And so’s Johann Kraus, the guy who did the really messy stuff for your father and uncle. So your brother’s had to take everything on himself. I can place him at the murder scene on Tyneside: I know he killed those three guys. I need you to tell me where I can find him now.’

She shook her head. ‘No chance. Anyway, Hastie’s not like that. He wouldn’t do that. He couldn’t.’

‘He couldn’t do what? He’s an ex-soldier; Christ, he’s trained to do that sort of work. Your big brother killed two men in cold blood, close up, and then he found the third and ripped . . .’ And then it hit me. ‘What did you call him?’

She saw my confusion and knew that she’d made a huge mistake. She realised how, too, and tried to back off from it. ‘Nothing. I said Peter, his name’s Peter.’

But it was out there. It was in the room. ‘Peter Hastings McGrew, Hastings after your granny. You called him Hastie, because that’s his family name. I’ve met him, I’ve even bloody met him!’ I shouted to the room. ‘He’s hiding in plain sight. He’s your dad’s nurse.’