Bob Skiinner 21 Grievous Angel (9 page)

Not that she was smiling at that moment. Her expression was solemn, for she knew why we had come. ‘I’m Bob Skinner,’ I told her. ‘And this is DC Martin.’

She looked at Andy. ‘It was you called me earlier?’ she asked. He nodded. ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch the name.’ Her attention, and those magnetic eyes, turned back to me. ‘Is this about my brother?’

‘You know, then.’

She nodded and blinked. ‘Yes. My mum called me, this morning.’ Her accent wasn’t a bit like Bella’s either: Scottish, but with no rough edges. Smoother than my Lanarkshire tones, that was for sure.

‘We’re sorry for your loss,’ I offered.

‘Thanks; I have a feeling that you mean that, and I appreciate it. It’s terrible that a thing like that could happen to somebody.’

‘Are you going on air this afternoon,’ I asked her, ‘or will someone stand in for you?’

She shook her head. ‘No, that wouldn’t be fair to the station, or to my listeners. I won’t have a problem; I won’t break down on air or anything like that. I don’t mean that to sound heartless, Mr Skinner, but I haven’t seen my brother since he was twelve years old. I never knew him as an adult. Nobody in here even knows I have a brother.’

‘Our press office is issuing a statement about now,’ I told her. ‘It doesn’t mention Marlon’s connection with you. If that’s something you want to keep private, we’ll respect that.’

‘Thanks. I’d be very grateful if you would.’

‘So you haven’t seen him at all lately?’

‘No, as I said, never.’

‘How about your mother?’

‘Occasionally.’

‘Did she ever talk about him?’

Mia smiled, but I sensed that it was false. ‘She has two topics of conversation: money and herself.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Listen, I hate to rush you, but I have to get my act together; I’m on in fifteen minutes.’

‘Understood,’ I said. I took out one of my calling cards; they’d have to be reprinted following my promotion but my Fettes extension number wouldn’t change, it would move with me. As an afterthought I found a pen and scrawled my mobile number on the back, before I handed it to her. ‘If anything occurs to you, something Bella might have said, for example, call me.’

She smiled. ‘You know my mum?’

‘Oh yes, I know your mum.’ I had a quick memory flash. ‘By the way, I’ve got a request from my daughter; she’s a fan. Can she have an autographed photo?’

‘My pleasure,’ Mia replied. ‘I’ll attend to it after my show. I’ll post it to the address on your card, yes?’

‘That’ll do fine. Her name’s Alex.’

‘Will I include her mother and you in the dedication?’

‘She doesn’t have a mother, not any more.’

She frowned. ‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

I shrugged, awkwardly; a strange gesture, I know, but I couldn’t help it. ‘It was a while ago.’ In a way that was a lie; to me it was the day before yesterday. ‘Just “To Alex” will be fine.’

We left her to get ready to brighten the airwaves. Andy Martin mirrored my thoughts as we climbed into my Land Rover. ‘Quite a contrast,’ he said, casually. ‘I wish I had a card to give her.’

‘You just keep your mind on the job, mate.’ I was about to start the engine when my mobile sang its song. I checked the oncoming number; it was Alison. ‘Yes,’ I answered, discreetly.

‘Have you been at it again?’ she asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ve been transferred to Torphichen Place.’

‘None of my doing,’ I told her, honestly. ‘Are you annoyed about it?’

‘It’s a crap building compared to St Leonards, but no, I’m not. I like Detective Superintendent Grant. But it’s a bit of a coincidence, you have to admit. You stomp all over Greg Jay last night in my presence, this morning he treats me like dog shit, and this afternoon I’m out of there. Was it him had me shifted, do you think?’

‘No, it wasn’t him.’ Too certain, Skinner! I knew it as soon as I’d spoken.

‘Ah, so you did know about it!’

I’d walked into that. ‘Alf Stein told me,’ I confessed.

‘Is it connected to you and me?’ She pressed. ‘Does Mr Stein know about us?’

‘DCS Stein knows everything about everybody,’ I chuckled. ‘I reckon he could blackmail the Pope. Look, come out tonight and have dinner with Alex and me. I’ll tell you the story then.’

‘Bob, I don’t know . . .’

‘Have you had a better offer?’

‘No, but. . .’

I brushed her hesitancy aside. ‘Come, and bring a bag. Relax, just a small one. About seven, okay?’

‘Okay.’

I put the phone away, without saying a word to Martin, although I knew that his mind was working and that he’d probably figured out who was on the other end of the conversation. To head off further conjecture, I asked him a straight question. ‘What’s with the cross? You seemed to be very attached to it when we were in Bella’s den yesterday.’

‘I’m a Roman Catholic, sir,’ he replied, quietly.

‘Devout?’

He took time to consider his response. ‘Practising,’ he said when he was ready. And then he added, ‘But I’m a sinner too, just like most people. I draw the line at killing, stealing and coveting my neighbour’s wife, or his ass . . . especially his ass . . . but I’m not above fancying his . . . sister.’

I threw him a sidelong look. ‘You almost said his daughter there, didn’t you?’

He nodded. ‘I confess that I did, but I’m neither wicked nor suicidal.’

‘They’re all someone’s daughter, Andy, the most precious thing a man can have.’ I didn’t want the mood to get heavy, so I moved on. ‘They tell me you don’t turn the other cheek on the rugby field.’

‘That doesn’t pay.’ He grinned. ‘Our Blessed Lord would have made a lousy flank forward. Mind you, He’d have got a game as long as He stood His round in the bar afterwards.’ He paused. ‘My being a Tim isn’t a problem for you, is it?’

‘Shit no. I might have been born a Proddy in Motherwell, but my dad outlawed bigotry in our house. I’ve left all that behind anyway. I’m nothing now. I haven’t been on speaking terms with God since he let my wife die.’

‘I don’t imagine it was His fault,’ Martin murmured.

‘Fucking was. He could have made her drive slower.’ I turned the key in the ignition. ‘Come on, let’s get back to the office.’

Seven

T
here were two newcomers in the outer office when we walked in. One of them I knew well.

‘Afternoon, sir,’ said Brian Mackie, tall, dark-suited, sombre, his dome-shaped skull giving the impression that it was trying to push its way out through his hair; eventually it would succeed. ‘Short time, no see.’

Less than twenty-four hours earlier, I’d said my farewells to him, along with the rest of the drugs team. ‘You can run away back there if you want,’ I told him. ‘I’ve got a really lousy job for you.’

He shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t expect any more of you, sir.’ That was as close as Mackie ever got to humour.

I looked at the man who stood beside him. He was a little younger, and shorter, but trim, with a capable look about him, and the face of a born lady-killer. ‘DC Steele?’

He nodded. ‘Sir.’ His handshake was firm and confident. I liked that.

‘Welcome to your new home, gentlemen,’ I said, ‘but you won’t be seeing much of it for a while. I need you to keep watch on someone for a few days.’ I paused. ‘Actually, it’s part surveillance, part bodyguard, but it’s discreet, and the subject mustn’t get a whisper that it’s happening.’ I gave them a rundown on the Bella situation. When I told them where she lived, Mackie grimaced, and I guessed why. ‘I know, Brian, it’s not the sort of place where you can just sit in a car all day. We’ll get you a cover story; there’s a manhole in the street.’ I glanced towards Adam. ‘Jeff, set it up, please; get on to the council and get it opened, and screened off. You two can be working there.’

‘It’s the weekend tomorrow, sir,’ Stevie Steele pointed out.

‘Is your social diary full?’ I asked him.

‘Nothing I can’t get out of, boss, but won’t it look odd to have guys working then?’

‘Anyone asks, say it’s an emergency. Tell them that if you don’t get it fixed their toilets will back up. Go on, get it under way, now, you two and DS Adam. DC McGuire,’ I said, moving on. The big guy blinked at the rank I’d given him, but I’d already decided that he was staying, it was a CID unit, and I didn’t want anyone to think of him as less than a full member. ‘You got those tapes?’

He had and he was keen to show me something. He had a video-cassette player and a monitor set up in a corner of the room. ‘I found this, boss,’ he said as he led me towards it. ‘I’ve already shown the DI.’

The tape had been paused. I looked at the time and date that were frozen on the screen: eight minutes before midnight on the previous Tuesday. The image was monochrome, and slightly blurred, but the camera seemed to be located in the Cowgate, looking east in the direction of Holyrood. McGuire pressed the ‘play’ button and the action started. A couple of cars came into view moving towards the camera, jerkily, since it was shooting at no more than one frame per second, then passed out of shot; the road was clear, until a box-shaped van appeared, at the bottom of the screen, then took a sharp right turn into Infirmary Street, and disappeared.

‘We’ve got that,’ the newly minted DC murmured, then pressed the ‘fast forward’ button, running the tape on. I watched the time readout, as he must have been, for when it reached three minutes past twelve, after one day had moved into the next, he slowed it to normal speed. Another car appeared heading west and as it passed, another van, no, the same van, surely, slowing this time to make the same turn as before.

McGuire stopped the tape and looked at me. ‘That’s a Transit,’ he said, ‘for sure. It doesn’t show again on that tape, but there’s another camera looking along the South Bridge.’ He reached for another cassette box, but I stopped him.

‘That’s okay; just tell me.’

He did. ‘The image doesn’t cover the other end of Infirmary Street, but an identical van appears in shot at six minutes to midnight, heading north, towards the city centre. And there’s another sighting, at seven minutes before one. Again it’s heading away from the camera.’

‘Go on. Your conclusion?’

‘It backs up the pub manager’s story, boss, doesn’t it?’ he declared, confidently. ‘I’d guess that Marlon was in the van. The first time the driver turned into Infirmary Street, it was busy, so he drove on. Then he did a loop up the High Street, left at the Mound, down Victoria Street and into the Grassmarket . . . even with only a wee bit of traffic that would have taken him ten minutes . . . and had another look. Second time it was all clear, so they hauled the lad out, forced him into the baths, and played with him.’

‘What about the pub manager guy? Did you get any more out of him?’

‘He’s with a photofit operator now, but I’m not sure how good he’ll be. I fear he’ll give us something just to get us off his back. He was right about the Transit, though.’

‘You and I know that, but to a prosecutor, it’s as you said, a guess. We need to find the van and prove Marlon was inside it. I didn’t notice any livery on the side. Have we got a number?’

McGuire winced. ‘I don’t think so. The turn it makes in the Cowgate is very tight to the camera; it doesn’t show the number plate. The South Bridge shots do, but the focus is pretty crap. I’ve frozen it, frame by frame, but I can’t get close to reading it.’

I looked at the still image on the screen. ‘I can see that. Tell you what, there’s a technical department upstairs, run by a whiz called Davidson. Take the tape to him, and ask him to do what he can to enhance it. Tell him I sent you.’

‘Yes, sir.’

I left him to get on with it and looked into the far corner of the suite, where DCs Macken and Reid sat at facing desks. I hate to admit it, since they were on my team, if only briefly, but I never did get to know their first names. As I walked across to them, they were deep in conversation. When I heard Macken say, ‘Frankie Dettori,’ I knew that the subject wasn’t work-related.

I’ve always had a temper, I confess. For the first fourteen years of my life it was probably suppressed for fear of the consequences, but it’s always been there. The only plea I’ll offer in my defence is that normally, the fuse is quite long. No, I have one more piece of mitigation: it’s non-existent with my kids. With them, and Aileen, I’m a big pink bunny rabbit. With anyone else, though, when it’s lit, there’s no stamping it out.

Reid glanced at me as I approached; he was a couple of years older than me, had been buried in Special Branch for a few years, photographing harmless students at protest rallies, and probably thought he was fire-proof. My presence didn’t seem to register with the other fellow at all.

‘Gentlemen,’ I said.

Macken leaned back in his chair and looked at me as if he was appraising me. He was a couple of years older than Reid, and it was rumoured that his wife was the cousin of the wife of his retired patron, Jock Davey. ‘Yes?’ he replied, stifling a half yawn.

He was a goner then, but he didn’t know it. Fred Leggat did though; he’d been speaking with Mackie and Steele, and I heard him stop in mid-sentence.

‘You two with me, my office, now!’ I ground the words out but shouted the last, then turned on my heel and walked away. Behind me I heard the noise of chairs scraping back. I was relieved; I’d have hauled Macken to his feet if I’d had to, but that wouldn’t have been good boss form. I was sitting behind my desk when they joined me. Reid reached for a chair. ‘Don’t bother,’ I barked. ‘Standing.’ The door was still ajar, but that was their problem.

In the outer office, everyone else seemed to have found something to do, apart from McGuire, who seemed to speed up as he headed for the door. I suspected that he didn’t want anything to splash on his nice suit. I launched into them. ‘As far as I know,’ I bellowed, ‘in this job, DC stands for detective constable, and that’s four rungs down the ladder from detective superintendent. That means that when I give you a task, you report to me when it’s finished, not the other way round!’

As they gazed back at me, Reid was apprehensive, but his sidekick still had a truculent look about him, that of a man who’d had a couple of pints for lunch and maybe one for the road as well. ‘So? Tell me. What do you hear about Tony Manson? Is his business under threat? Does he have a new rival? Where the hell is he? Or have you just been in the pub all bloody day?’