Skinner's Rules (18 page)

 

It was 3.15 a.m. on New Year’s morning when they returned to the apartment. They tumbled into bed and made love with a special unhurried air of relaxation which they both recognised was something new. Sarah’s orgasm happened quickly, and went on and on. Bob, when he came volcanically inside her, cried out as every inch of their bodies seemed to fuse together.

When she could speak, Sarah whispered in his ear. ‘If that’s what being engaged does for you, I don’t know if I’ll survive marriage.’

‘Nnnn.’ Bob nuzzled his face into her neck, closed his eyes and, smiling, settled down to sleep.

He was still smiling next morning on the terrace, as they ate breakfast in the perfect sunshine. So was Sarah.

‘That was a pretty high standard we set ourselves last night, boy. Tell me, Assistant Chief Constable Skinner, do you get as intense as that when you’re working on your cases?’

He nodded at the recollection. And then it was as if his face had been flooded with light.

He seized her shoulders in each of his lean hands and kissed her, taking her by surprise and astonishing the English emigré neighbour who happened to be walking past with his black labrador.

Dr Sarah Grace Skinner to be, you are a genius. That’s it! The word you used last night. The word coppers never use.

‘Cases!’

‘That’s it. That’s the itch I’ve been trying to scratch! That’s what was wrong with the Mortimer and Jameson situations ... their cases.’

Bob was so excited that Sarah forgot to be annoyed that his mind had gone back to work, and to the Yobatu Affair.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Look, Mortimer’s case was one of those combination jobs. And when we found it the lock was set. I’ve got one of those things. So have you, and so have quite a few other people we know. Do you ever set the combination for short journeys like office to home?’

‘No, I don’t suppose I do. I can never remember combinations anyway, I just keep it zeroed.’

‘Right. So there’s Mike Mortimer, on a short walk home in the middle of the night, yet the locks on his case were set!’

‘Come on, Bob, that’s a long shot.’

‘No it’s not. It’s an unusual circumstance, and they’re the first things you look for in a criminal investigation. Things, even tiny things, that don’t fit a normal behaviour pattern. And even if it is a long shot on its own, taken with the Jameson situation it adds up.’

‘What about her?’

‘Her case wasn’t there! The report of her death listed everything she had on her, yet there was no mention of a case. And I didn’t pick that up. I’m so dumb I should be a Transport copper. The woman had just finished a major criminal trial, away from Edinburgh. Of course she would have had a document case with her, and probably a big one at that.’

‘But what does it all mean?’

‘Christ alone knows, but I’m going to find out.’

‘Isn’t it all closed. Official Secret and all that?’

‘That’s not going to stop me. I’ll just have to play it a bit quiet, that’s all. Poor old Andy! What’s her name’ll give him hell when he tells her he’s working on New Year’s Day!’

It was 11.53 a.m. on 1 January, when the telephone rang two feet from Martin’s left ear. He opened his eyes blearily, and reached for the telephone on the bedside table.

‘Hello; 747 3781. And a Happy New Year, whoever you are,’ he mumbled into the phone.

‘And the same to you, lad.’

Martin was suddenly wide awake. ‘Bob, I didn’t expect you to call. How’s Sarah?’

‘Great. We’re getting married.’

There was a pause while the news sank in. ‘Bob, that’s great. Congratulations, you lucky sod.’

‘Thanks, Andy; now you’re going to hate me. Hope you’re up to driving, ’cause I’ve got a couple of jobs for you. I want you to find Mike Mortimer’s briefcase, wherever it is. I know our property people, and the time they take to process goods. So chances are it’ll still be in police hands. Then I want you to find the property report on Rachel Jameson, and check for any mention of a briefcase. If there isn’t one, and I don’t think there is, get Willie Haggerty in Strathclyde - quietly, mind you - to check whether there’s a case stashed in the office that dealt with her death.

‘If there’s still no sign, get on to the next-of-kin, her mother I think it was, and ask if she’s got it, or knows where it is.’

‘What if she didn’t have a briefcase?’

‘Don’t be bloody dense, Andy. Where else would she carry her papers?’

Martin grimaced. His head was throbbing, and his concentration was not helped by Joanne’s successor, Lucy, sliding down the bed to grasp him, as he spoke, in both of her long-fingered hands. Oh Lord, he thought, if You are just, I’ll die now.

With masterful control he said, ‘When I’ve done all this, boss, what then?’

‘Nothing. Lock everything away and wait for me to get back. Don’t tell anyone what you’re doing. Just do it very quietly, and say nothing, not even to the Chief.’

A soft moan escaped Martin’s lips.

‘What was that?’

‘Sorry, boss, just yawning. OK, that’s understood. See you on Thursday, then.’

‘Fine. Need to go now, the change is running out. Remember: quietly.

The line went dead. Martin replaced the receiver. And screamed. Quietly. From beneath the humped duvet, Lucy grinned up at him.

The Fettes Avenue Headquarters were on skeleton staff when Martin arrived. The Yobatu papers were kept under lock and key in a restricted access area on the ground floor of the four-storey building. As Head of Special Branch, Andy Martin had access.

Quickly he found the files which covered the death of Rachel Jameson. He noted the telephone number of Rachel’s mother. Then he scanned the list of effects for any mention of a briefcase. There was none.

He replaced the brown file, and walked quickly down to the Productions Store, in the basement of the building. The civilian clerks who normally staffed it were among the New Year’s Day absentees, and the heavy door was locked. Martin opened it with a master key.

The big room was crammed with an incredible range of objects, arranged in an order which was logical only to the permanent clerks.

‘Like bloody Alladin’s cave, this,’ Martin muttered to himself.

Video recorders, television sets and tape recorders were stacked alongside a wheel-chair and an artificial limb. Cash, in plastic bags, sat on a shelf, beside packages of hard drugs. Each item was labelled with details of the time of its lodgement, and of the case in which it was a production in evidence.

Martin went from shelf to shelf, from rack to rack. His eye lighted on a number of suitcases piled one on top of the other. He checked the labels. They were dated six months before the Mortimer murder. There was no sign of a briefcase anywhere near. His eye scanned along the row, to where a pile of documents lay clumsily stacked. Again he checked the label. They had been there for a week. In the rack behind, polythene wrappers reflected the light into his eyes. He stepped round for a closer look. It was a haul of three dozen tracksuits, recovered from a man arrested for breaking into a sports shop.

The back of the room was filled with cases of beer, lager and liquor of all descriptions. December was boom time for pub and off-licence break-ins, Martin recalled. As he glanced towards the store of drink, his eye was caught by a dark object, on a shelf near the floor. Crested, silver buttons gleamed. He looked closer. It was a policeman’s uniform jacket. The breast was marked by a rusty stain that could only be one thing. Martin knew that it was MacVicar’s uniform.

He knelt down, and, with a sort of reverence, withdrew the garment from the deep shelf. He looked into the dark space behind. There, leaning against the wall, was a hand-stitched brown leather briefcase. He reached in, and retrieved it.

It was wrapped in clear polythene; another dark stain, similar to that on the uniform coat, showed clearly on the lid, on which the letters ‘MM’ were embossed in gold leaf.

Martin looked at the briefcase, and as he did so his mind flashed back to that awful morning in Advocates’ Close. A wave of revulsion swept over him at the recollection of the savaged corpse, its dead eyes staring pitifully at him from the severed head. As he locked the store and left with the briefcase, he was still white-faced. Sweat glistened on his forehead.

He went to his office, located Willie Haggerty’s home number in his personal organiser, and dialled.

‘Mr Haggerty? Remember me, Andy Martin, Special Branch in Edinburgh. Look, I hate to bother you on New Year’s Day, but a question’s come up on Yobatu. Just something we’ve got to tidy up. I wonder if you could have it checked, with maximum discretion.’

He explained that he was trying to locate Rachel Jameson’s briefcase. ‘It’s a family request. They can’t find it, and they asked us if we had it. I wondered if it was still in Strathclyde.’

Haggerty grunted. ‘A family request! On New Year’s bloody Day! That’ll be right. You’re up to something, son. But don’t tell me, if Bob told you not to.’

At the other end of the line, Martin grinned. Crafty old bastard, he thought, almost aloud.

‘Okay, Andy, I’ll check it out. Since you’re asking if rather than where, I’ll assume that it’s no’ on the property list that’s on your files. Gie’s a phone number. Ah’ll call you back.’

Martin gave Haggerty his home telephone number. ‘Thanks, Mr Haggerty. Chances are this won’t amount to anything, but if necessary we’ll keep in touch.’

He kept the receiver in his hand, pushed the recall button and dialled the bereaved Mrs Jameson. He knew that Rachel’s mother was a widow, and so he was taken slightly by surprise when the telephone was answered by a man. Voices sounded in the background. ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ he said. ‘I wonder if I might speak with Mrs Wilma Jameson.’

‘That depends. Who are you?’

‘Chief Inspector Andrew Martin. And you are, sir?’

The voice at the other end of the line suddenly became respectful. ‘Me? Oh, I’m Harry Peebles; Mrs Jameson’s my sister. Hold on please. Wilma!’ He bawled over the voices in the background.

‘Christ!’ Andy chortled to himself, with his hand over the telephone. ‘I think I’ve got Fred Flintstone here!’

He heard Peebles mutter to his sister, then a strong female voice came on to the line. ‘Mr Martin. What do the police want, today of all days?’

‘It’s just another day for us, I’m afraid. I’m sorry to interrupt your party, Mrs Jameson, but it’s a matter relating to your daughter’s death, and some of her legal papers which may be missing. By any chance, do you have her briefcase?’

For a moment Mrs Jameson sounded guilty. ‘I’m not really having a party, Chief Inspector. My brother and his family have come round to cheer me up. You see, I always spent New Year’s Day with Rachel. I wouldn’t have known what to do with myself but for Harry, Cissie and the family.’

It was Martin’s turn to feel guilty. ‘Of course, Mrs Jameson.’

‘Yes, but one must be strong. Now, Rachel’s briefcase; I thought that you had it, or perhaps her Clerk, or someone else up at the Library. certainly don’t. I’ve been wondering about it, in fact. You will let me know when you locate it, won’t you?’

‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry to have bothered you.’ He ended the call and replaced the receiver.

He pulled open a cupboard, rummaged around in the darkness for almost a minute, and emerged, holding an A5 handbook, with a pale blue and gold cover. It was a directory of practising advocates, listed alphabetically and by stables, each group headed by the name, address and home telephone number of its clerk.

He found Rachel’s entry in the group serviced by Miss A. E. Rabbit. He picked up the telephone once more and dialled the number shown.

Angela Rabbit was used to calls at odd hours. Willingness to accept them was one of the requirements of the job, as was a total recall memory.

‘Rachel’s briefcase? Big black thing. No it never came back. I really should have the McCann papers as well. You don’t suppose Strathclyde have lost them do you?’

Martin laughed, thanked her, and rang off.

He locked Mortimer’s case in his security cabinet. As he stood up he spoke to the empty room. ‘God knows what Bob’ll make of it, but I have a feeling that there’s trouble for someone on its way back from L’Escala.’

Unusually for a charter, their flight from Gerona to Manchester arrived on time. The big baggage hall was quiet, with only two of the six carousels in use.

The drive home took three and a half hours. They followed the M6 then the A74 to Moffat, cut cross-country to the Edinburgh by-pass and headed eastward to Gullane. It was just after 7.00 p.m. when Bob drew the car to a halt outside the cottage, beside Alex’s ageing Metro.

The entrance hallway was dark. The cottage was silent. Sarah flicked on a light. Nothing happened. Skinner swore softly. Sarah found the handle of the living room door and opened it.

‘Surprise!’ forty voices shouted in chorus.

Sarah’s jaw dropped. Alex and Andy stood in front of a host of friends, from Gullane, from the force, and from Sarah’s practice.

Andy pressed a button on the CD player. Cliff Richard boomed out his congratulations through the powerful speakers.

‘What the hell is this?’ Bob said to Sarah, who looked equally stunned.

Alex answered. She stepped up to them with eyes shining. She hugged Sarah first, then Bob.

‘This, my naive old parent, is Alexis Skinner’s luxury-model surprise engagement party!

‘Have a glass.’ She pressed a champagne flute into his hand. Andy handed one to Sarah, kissing her on the cheek. Alex looked towards the corner of the room. ‘Come on, Chief, do your duty!’

To Skinner’s added astonishment, Proud Jimmy stepped forward, out of uniform for once. He raised his glass. ‘Ladies and gentlemen! I am here to propose a toast to which I have been looking forward for some months now. I give you the happy couple, Bob and Sarah!’