Private Investigations (24 page)

Forty

I’d been in the old Glasgow City Mortuary, in the Saltmarket, once or twice but never in the new twenty-first-century model in Govan. As these things go, it was state of the art, everything stainless steel and spotless and, most important of all, the air purification system worked perfectly.

I’d been expecting Mario to call me the evening before to give me a ‘Yes’ or a ‘No’ on whether I could attend, but he didn’t. Instead it was Andy Martin who called, the Chief Constable of Scotland himself.

‘Bob, how are you?’ he began, heartily, as soon as I picked up the phone in the office, having been advised by an operator that he was on the line. Even before the last of those four words were out, his tone had sent me a message of irrevocable change. But I was ready, for it cut both ways.

Those who’ve observed me over the years will have realised by now that I have very few close friends outside the police. Within the service I have half a dozen, and for many years Andy Martin was one of the closest. Back then he wouldn’t have needed to ask how I was; he’d have known, because we’d have spoken every other day. That call, that evening, was our first contact since I’d congratulated him on his appointment a few months before.

Since then he’d dumped my daughter, and, it was apparent from the distance in his greeting, that he’d dumped me too.

‘I’m fine, Andy,’ I assured him, ‘and if word hasn’t got to you yet, I wouldn’t touch the Scottish Police Authority chair with a bargepole.’

‘I didn’t think for a minute that you would,’ he lied. ‘Bob, about this suspicious death . . .’

‘Suspicious fucking death?’ I laughed. ‘The guy was tied up and left sitting in his own shit for some poor sod like me to find him. Don’t go all PC on me, Andy. The word is murder.’

‘Okay, it is,’ he conceded. ‘And that makes me hesitant about you being involved.’

‘Your hesitancy has fuck all to do with it, my friend,’ I pointed out. ‘Indeed, it isn’t relevant, for I am involved. I’ve undertaken an investigation for a client, and it led me to Jock Hodgson. I’m not backing off just because he happens to be dead. If you think I’ll impede the police inquiry, tell me, but if that’s what you do think, you’re insulting two of your best detective officers, and by the way, you’re insulting me.’

‘Still . . .’ he said.

I’d had enough. ‘Sir Andrew,’ I growled, ‘if you want to deny me access and you refuse to let Lottie Mann share information with me, remember that cuts both ways. And remember also that I’m a director of a bloody newspaper group!’

‘Don’t threaten me, Bob,’ he murmured.

‘My only threat to you is in your mind,’ I snapped. ‘Listen, boy, if I’d wanted your job I’d have had it. I didn’t; instead, having mentored you since you were a sprog detective and seen you rise through the ranks, I stepped aside and helped you into the chair you’re warming now.’

‘So you do regret not going for the post,’ he murmured.

‘Listen to what I’m saying, for fuck’s sake! I don’t. But frankly I’m beginning to regret not backing Maggie Steele or Mario rather than you.’

‘Ah,’ he exclaimed. ‘This is about Alex, isn’t it?’

‘Don’t bring my daughter into this,’ I warned him. ‘That’s different, because it’s personal. I should have seen you off when you worked your way back into her life after you left Karen. Hurting her once was hard to forgive. Doing it again means you’ll have an enemy for as long as I’m breathing.’

‘No middle ground then,’ he said, sarcastically.

I came close to slamming the phone down, but I didn’t. Instead, with an effort, I regained control of my temper.

‘Like I said,’ I went on, ‘that’s personal. The Hodgson investigation and my work for Eden Higgins, that’s professional. There may be a common interest or there may not. While we find out, do you want me inside the tent pissing out, or would you rather it was the other way round?’

‘Oh, go ahead,’ he sighed. ‘I’ll authorise DI Mann to cooperate with you. Mario says she’s a good operator.’

‘She is; very.’

I thought we were done, but he wanted the last word. ‘You’re not perfect yourself, you know, when it comes to women.’

‘I’m probably even more imperfect than you know, sunshine,’ I admitted, ‘but that cuts you no slack when it comes to my Alex.’

It crossed my mind that Andy might have shown up at the Hodgson post-mortem, but he didn’t. Neither did Mario, who was heading for Inverness to cast a beady eye over Northern Division CID. Lottie Mann was the senior officer present; indeed she was the only officer there, as Dan Provan had used me as an excuse to wriggle his way out of a singularly unpleasant duty.

The lead pathologist was a man I’d seen in court but never met. His name was Graeme Bell and he was the senior man in the Greater Glasgow area, although unlike Sarah he had no university responsibilities. He wasn’t the talkative type; he worked in silence while we looked on from a viewing gallery, happy to be screened from the action and the odour.

He worked away for two hours, cutting, measuring, extracting, probing his subject from head to foot. Once he had completed his initial examination and got down to detail, he paid particular attention to the head, and that interested me. Then he switched to the other end and that held my attention even more closely.

It was only when he was done that he acknowledged our presence, telling us that he’d see us in the briefing room once he’d cleaned up.

Sarah uses Chanel after a very messy one; Bell used the gentleman’s equivalent, liberally. As he joined us, and poured himself a coffee, suddenly he stared at me.

‘You’re Mr Skinner, aren’t you?’ he ventured, as he sat. I nodded. ‘I thought you were gone from all this.’

‘So did I,’ I acknowledged. ‘I’m here as a civilian observer, that’s all.’

‘Mmm. How’s Sarah?’ he asked.

I smiled. ‘Blooming.’ Clearly, word of our reunion had made its way through the pathology community.

‘What’s the verdict, doctor?’ Lottie Mann, not being one for small talk, asked abruptly.

‘He’s dead,’ Bell replied, winking as he took a sip from his mug.

‘We sensed that when we saw him yesterday,’ she sighed. ‘It’s nice to know we haven’t lost our touch.’

‘The subject died from a single gunshot wound to the head,’ the pathologist announced. ‘It was fired at close range, from the side and slightly downward. I’ve recovered a nice clean bullet lodged in the zygomatic ridge just in front of the right ear. That’s the only way I’ve been able to give you a cause of death; the body’s too decomposed for a straightforward autopsy.’ He hesitated. ‘How long has he been dead? That’s difficult to say for sure, but six weeks, minimum.’

‘No worries,’ Lottie replied, drily. ‘The mail we found behind his front door suggests that he died at the beginning of December.’

‘That’s probably right. The rate of decomposition isn’t an exact science. When I visited the scene I noticed that it was cold.’

She nodded. ‘Yes, it was. The central heating was oil-fired, but the tank was empty. We’re guessing it ran out after he was killed.’

‘I see. Lucky, in one way; in a warmer environment there would have been even more flies.’

‘Were there many pre-mortem injuries?’ I asked.

Bell nodded. ‘The plastic strips that secured his wrists and his left ankle to the chair were pulled so tight that they cut into the flesh. Painful, but by comparison to the other thing, insignificant.’ He paused. ‘If you were at the scene, you might remember that Mr Hodgson was barefoot. His shoes and socks had been removed.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, there’s just about enough flesh left for me to be sure that he was tortured by burning. Something like a blowlamp was used on his right foot, extensively. It’s for you to determine, Inspector Mann, but I’d say that either this man had seriously upset someone, or whoever went to work on him wanted information, and wanted it very badly indeed.’

Forty-One

‘Do you want to come back to Pitt Street for a chat and a bite of lunch?’ Lottie Mann asked.

‘To the first, definitely not,’ I said. I’d seen enough of the former Strathclyde Police headquarters building to last me a couple of lifetimes. ‘Lunch is on the agenda, though.’

We settled on the public cafeteria in the massive new general hospital for our post-mortem of the post-mortem, and found a table there. I’d skimped on breakfast with the morning’s business in mind, and found my appetite catching up with me. I loaded a plate with corned beef hash from the self-service buffet, trying to contain my amazement as my companion put together the biggest fry-up I’d ever seen.

She caught my glance and read it right. ‘I know,’ she admitted, ‘it’s a classic, lethal Weegie all-day breakfast, and I do my best to resist. Usually I succeed, but after this morning, what the hell.’

‘How’s your wee lad?’ I asked her, as we tucked in.

Lottie Mann is a single parent with a son around the same age as my James Andrew. Her marriage collapsed when her ex-cop husband went to jail, along with his still-serving woman on the side, for their peripheral involvement in a high-profile crime.

‘Jake’s great, thanks,’ she replied. ‘We’ve moved house. I bought a three-bed mid-terrace in what was the Commonwealth Games Village. It’s not huge but it’s big enough for the two of us, and for my mother when she stays over.’

‘But not for Scott, when he gets out?’ I ventured.

‘Not a chance,’ she replied. ‘The only way I want to see that man again is standing over his open coffin with a wooden stake in one hand and a hammer in the other. There are times when I have an insight into the mentality of a murderer. Thinking of him brings it on. It’s not so much what he did to me; it’s how it affected Jakey.’

‘I’ve been through two divorces,’ I told her. ‘The first one was a huge mistake, which I’ve been lucky enough to have the chance to rectify. The other was very bitter and very public, as you and the whole world know; but I’m over it.’ I smiled. ‘I even watched a Joey Morrocco movie the other night.’

Joey was the actor with whom the third Mrs Skinner was caught on camera; a household name but not in mine.

‘Is he still in Hollywood?’ Lottie asked.

I winked at her. ‘If he knows what’s good for him.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you sure you didn’t meet Jock Hodgson before yesterday?’

My laugh was loud enough to draw a sharp look from the next table, reminding me that we were surrounded by people who were under the stress of visiting friends and family in hospital.

‘Detective Inspector,’ I replied, more quietly, ‘I built a career on getting information out of people, without ever laying as much as a finger on them. If I’d wanted Hodgson to tell me something, I’d just have asked him and he’d have told me.’

‘Is that what you think? That he was tortured for information, rather than being killed brutally by a sadist?’

‘He wasn’t killed brutally,’ I pointed out. ‘Remember what Dr Bell found; he died from a single shot to the head. Death would have been instantaneous, and he’d have been out of his misery in that split second. Of course the killer was after something, and it’s a safe assumption that it was information: but information on what? You and Dan, and your team, have to do a complete background check on Hodgson before you can hazard a guess.’

‘We will do,’ she promised. ‘But how does that justify your interest, and your presence here? You must suspect that his death’s linked to the job you’re doing.’

‘I don’t suspect anything,’ I countered. ‘I’m an interested party, that’s all. One step at a time, Lottie: we know that the man was murdered, but really, we know eff all else about him, other than what I was told by one of his several employers. You fill in the gaps, and we’ll take it from there.’

I left her to add sticky toffee pudding to her cardiac cocktail, and drove back east. I was passing the Harthill motorway service area, driving cautiously through a light snow shower that had sprung up from nowhere, when I decided to call Carrie McDaniels for a progress report.

‘Nothing yet,’ she said. ‘Your meter is still running. I can see why you gave me this job rather than doing it yourself. It’s bloody tedious.’

‘I know that,’ I chuckled, ‘but have you got anything positive from it?’

‘Not so far,’ she admitted. ‘Actually you saved me a phone call,’ she continued. ‘I’d like you to loosen the strings you put on me yesterday.’

‘In what way?’ I asked.

‘There’s a hint of something I’ve picked up in a newspaper report on one of the companies on your list. I’d like to look into it in more detail, but to do that I’ll need to speak to someone. It’s a guy I know, but the problem is he’s a business journalist, and you said no press.’

‘How well do you know him?’

‘Very well; we were at school together. I used to give him information when I was with the insurance company.’

‘Can you talk to him without bringing me or our client into it, and without giving him any clue of what this is about?’

‘Mr Skinner, you’re forgetting; I don’t know what this is about. I’m just running down a list of people and companies you gave me.’

‘Maybe so, but can you talk to him without making him too curious?’

‘Yes, I can. If he did get difficult,’ she added, ‘I know who his newest lady friend is, and he knows I know.’

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘She’s a television presenter, and she’s married.’

‘Tread carefully,’ I warned her, ‘but go ahead.’

The snow disappeared as quickly as it had arrived, and I was able to pick up pace. Since I ceased to be a cop I’ve always been careful to stick to the speed limits, or at least to stay within the unofficial tolerance zone. Too many tabloids would love to report on a Bob Skinner court appearance. Even at that gentle pace, I had time on my hands so I made a detour to the Mercedes dealership on the edge of Edinburgh to pick up a detailed estimate for the repair of my damaged car.

I was almost home when my phone sounded again. I hadn’t expected to hear from Lottie Mann for at least twenty-four hours, and so I was taken by surprise.

‘What’s up?’ I asked. ‘Was there something we forgot to cover over lunch?’

‘No,’ she said breezily. ‘I thought I’d give you a heads up on what we’ve got so far. We’ve still got a way to go before we have the complete picture, but we know some of it. Hodgson was fifty-four; he graduated in marine engineering from Heriot Watt Uni in Edinburgh and joined the Navy aged twenty-four. He served in the surface fleet, including some time in aircraft carriers during the first Gulf War. He retired, or he was retired, ten years ago and joined the Royal Fleet Auxiliary: that’s a civilian support . . .’

‘I know what it is; it gets people and things to wherever they’re needed by the military.’

‘That’s right. He turned that in when he was fifty, and moved to Wemyss Bay from the Portsmouth area. He was married from nineteen eighty-nine to twenty zero two. That ended in divorce; no children.’

‘Where did you get all this?’ I asked.

‘Department of Work and Pensions . . . if that’s what it’s still called,’ she chuckled. ‘He’s been paying self-employed National Insurance contributions for the last four years. We don’t yet know who his clients are apart from Mr Higgins, but when we can access his bank details and see where his payments have been coming from, that’ll give us a better idea.’

‘Where did he bank?’

‘We found an ATM card for a Santander account among his effects in the house. He had one of their credit cards as well, and a Barclaycard. Dan’s on to the bank now; as usual, they’re being difficult.’

‘Let DCC McGuire know if it becomes a problem,’ I suggested. ‘He has a special way with difficult jobsworths, plus he knows the Data Protection Act inside out.’

‘Will do, Mr Skinner, thanks,’ Lottie said.

‘Were there no papers in the house to help you?’ I asked.

‘Precious little. He had a file with council tax details in it, and another for insurance, but no receipts for utilities, gas, electric, the phone.’

‘Me neither,’ I confessed. ‘Everything in my household is online, and settled automatically by direct debit. But if that was the case with Hodgson,’ I pondered aloud, ‘it should be on his computer.’

‘And it probably is,’ she agreed, ‘but we don’t know where that is. A week or so before his death, he reported a break-in at his house. The missing property listed in the investigating officers’ notes was a hundred and fifty quid in cash, an inscribed Omega watch that was a leaving present from his Navy pals, some gold men’s jewellery, a valuable ring that he said was his mother’s, and a Dell laptop computer.’

‘Did the responding officers have the place dusted?’

‘Of course they did,’ she said, reprovingly. ‘And it was clean as a whistle. The ring was insured for five grand and Hodgson had a photograph of it. It’s a nice-looking piece. That was circulated to all the likely jewellery buyers, including pawnshops, but nothing’s shown up.’

I could see her frown, and her pursed lips, in my mind’s eye. ‘Go on, Lottie,’ I challenged, ‘tell me what you’ve got in mind. See if you’re wondering the same as me.’

‘If you insist,’ she responded, ‘although I’ll only have your word for what you’re thinking. I’m wondering whether all the other items were stolen to disguise the fact that the laptop was the real target.’

‘Then take my word for it,’ I told her. ‘But I’m not even wondering. I’d bet your house on it. A laptop’s worth bugger all in sell-on value. The dogs in the bloody street have got laptops these days. You may assume that Hodgson’s burglar was after the Dell, and I reckon that you can assume also that either it was password protected and he couldn’t crack it or there was nothing on it apart from email files of his phone bills. And so he came back,’ I concluded. ‘And here’s where I leave you behind, DI Mann,’ I went on, ‘for I might even hazard a guess at who he was.’

‘Are you going to share that?’ she asked.

‘Not yet. Do something else for me first. If the CSIs did their job, they went over the garage and they found a Samsung Galaxy phone lying in his car. If they didn’t, it’s still there. Either way,’ I said, ‘you should get hold of it and see what’s on it. If I’m right, then I’ll share, and as far as Chief Constable Martin’s concerned it was your idea all along.’