Skinner's Rules (22 page)

‘Did you see Miss Jameson after Mr Mortimer’s death?’

‘Yes. I went round the evening after it happened. She was, well, funny; very quiet, very controlled, but it was as if a big black blanket had wrapped itself around her. I couldn’t reach her at all. I wasn’t really surprised when she killed herself. She was keeping all the grief inside And that’s dangerous, so they say.’

‘That evening, or at any other time, did she ever talk about her work?

‘Not much. She mentioned one or two criminal cases. She did tell me that she was worried about that last case. What was the man’s name. McGann? McCurin? No, McCann, that was it. She said that he scared the life out of her. She told me that she was sure he was guilty, but he had a defence and although she thought he was lying, she was worried that if the main prosecution witness wasn’t good, he might get off. The advocate’s dilemma, she called it. He didn’t get off, did he, but he escaped. Have they got him yet?’

‘Yes, the French police picked him up last week in Dijon. He’s been charged with murdering an old woman for the sake of the forty-three francs in her purse.’

‘Horrible. Rachel was right about him.’

‘She surely was. Mrs Allan, did Miss Jameson ever mention anything she was working on that was out of the usual run of things; something that she might have been working on with Mike?’

The woman was silent for several seconds. ‘Only the house. They’d bought a piece of land in West Linton. They were getting married next autumn and they were going to build a house.

‘But work, no. Nothing at all.’

‘Did Miss Jameson have any other male friends before Mike, or even while she was seeing him?’

‘You can forget the second part of that question. Those two were soul-mates - there’s an old-fashioned term for you. Before, I suppose she had There was some fat wimp of an accountant tagging along when I first knew her, and she did mention once that she’d been keen on some chap at university, but that was all.’

Martin noted the two slim and unlikely leads. ‘Mrs Allan, that’s been a big help. I’ll let you get back to sleep now:’

‘No such luck! The baby’s awake!’ She laughed grimly, and hung up

He chose another name from the list of friends. Marjorie Porteous had been Rachel’s equivalent of Johnny Smellie, her best friend through her schooldays at St George’s, and on through university. She had taken her Economics First to the City, and had married a property developer.

When Martin called the Maidenhead number, the telephone was answered by a woman with an accent redolent of Morningside, that refined but decaying suburb of Edinburgh. ‘652375. Marjorie d’Antonio speaking.’ Rachel’s mother had voiced to Martin her suspicion that the husband, whom she recalled from the wedding, had been christened Anthony Muggins, and had had swift recourse as an adult to the deed poll procedure.

‘Good morning, Mrs d’Antonio.’ Martin introduced himself an explained the reason for his call. At once the assertive voice at the other end of the line softened, and the accent became less pronounced.

‘ Yes. Poor Rachel. How can I help you, Chief Inspector?’

‘By telling me about Miss Jameson and your friendship.’

‘Where to begin? Rachel came to St George’s when she was fourteen You know what they say about St George’s? “All they teach you there is how to write cheques.”’ She laughed at her quip.

‘Well in our case at least, it wasn’t true. Rachel and I were sort of star pupils in our year. Did our full quota of “A” levels and went to Edinburg University together. At school, Rachel was always the popular one. Everyone thought I was a conceited little cow, and guess what, they were right, but Rachel had no airs and graces. She was head girl in our fina year, and she fixed it for me to be a prefect. I got my own back on a few then, I’ll tell you!’

Martin chuckled at the woman’s openness. He was warming to her more and more as the call progressed. ‘What about university? Did you both live at home?’

‘In our first year, yes. Then my Dad bought a flat in Marchmont as an investment, and we moved in, with a succession of other girls.’

‘Was Rachel active in university clubs?’

‘No. Not really. We both joined the North America travel club, and spent our second summer vacation working in San Francisco, but that was all. She didn’t get involved in politics or anything of that sort. She thought it was a waste of study time, and so did I.’

‘If she had joined a political club, what do you think it would have been?’

Marjorie’s answer came back without a pause. ‘The SNP. She was very into ethnic rights. Stood up for the oppressed and all that.’

‘Did she have any relationships at university?’

‘With men? Just a few flings at first. Quick grope in the Odeon, tha level of thing. But only one serious affair, in our third year. Her grades dipped a bit because of it. In fact that’s why she had to settle for a Two One, rather than a First; no doubt about it.’

‘Do you remember anything about the man?’

‘Not even his name. She called him Fuzzy; we all did. He was some sort of Arab. They met at a Union disco. Quick dance, he flashed the brow eyes and that was it.’

‘What sort of a man was he?’

‘I don’t really know. He hardly ever said anything. He was about the flat quite a lot. I mean, he and Rachel were sleeping together, but he never strung together any more than yes, no, please and thank you, when anyone else was around. I think it might have been the fact that he was so shy that attracted Kachel to him. When they were alone you could hear them yakking away through the wall.’

‘What happened?’

‘He left at the end of the year. But I could sense that it was running out of steam by then. Rachel told me so. She said that the trouble was his intensity, and his complete lack of humour. So he left, we went to the Côte d’Azur to work for the summer, Rachel met a big blond Swede with muscles everywhere, and I mean everywhere, and forgot about Fuzzy End of chapter.’

‘How about men after that?’

‘I didn’t see all that much of her after I moved south. But we exchanged letters often, and I gathered from them that there was no one serious for a long time, not until she met Mike Mortimer.’

‘When did you see her last?’

‘In the autumn. She came down for a weekend in September. The time before that was when I visited my parents in the spring.’

‘Did she say anything on either occasion about anything unusual that she and Mike, or either of them alone, might have been involved in?’

‘No. All she talked about was how happy they were, and how she would be able to take a year off from practice to have a baby when the time came, and how super everything was going to be. And then!’ Suddenly Marjorie, on the other end of the telephone, burst into tears. ‘What a shame What a bloody shame. And what a waste.’

The cobbles roared under the wheels of the Astra as they drove throug the New Town. Martin parked on a yellow line across the street from Mortimer’s flat. There was an old-fashioned remote entry system on the heavy outer door. Skinner rang the bell and after a few seconds the door creaked open. They stepped into a cold, dull hallway, and went through a second door, glass-panelled this time.

‘Up here!’ Brian Mackie called down to them.

The two detectives trotted up to the second floor. At the top of the stairway, the DI held a door open.

Mike Mortimer’s living room was furnished conservatively, mostly with reproduction items, but with one or two antique pieces situated prominently.

‘Nice place,’ said Martin.

‘A change from your bloody Habitat warehouse!’ Skinner suggested

Mackie grinned. ‘You should take a look in the bedroom. The four poster must have cost a bob or two.’

‘Does it have a canopy?’ Skinner asked.

‘Yes, boss. And we’ve checked. There’s nothing stashed up there. Mackie smiled, unable to hide his pleasure at having anticipated the question which had been bound to follow.

‘We’ve been all over the place. All his personal and business records were in that big desk over there, or in these two cupboards. He’s had them converted into filing cabinets.’

Mackie walked over to a door set in the wall to the left of the east-facing window. He threw it open. The space behind was filled with side-hung file racks, most of them stuffed with papers and manila folders.

Skinner looked inside. ‘You’ve got some work ahead of you. Is the other one the same?’

‘There’s this thing as well. We’ll need to look at it.’ He turned agai towards the desk. The only incongruous object in the room was a grey micro-computer with a small dot-matrix printer attached by a ribbon cable. By its side was a small box with a clear plastic lid, containing a number of computer disks in cardboard holders. Mackie picked one out and howed it to Skinner and Martin. ‘He’s been kind enough to label all of these. All I need now is to be able to read them.’

Skinner moved over to the desk. ‘I think I can show you how, Brian.’ He looked at the computer. ‘Yes. It’s an Amstrad 8512, twin-drive, bog-standard machine. My daughter has one for her studies. Watch me.’

He ran through the start-up procedure for Mackie. ‘Is that clear enough, Brian?’

‘Yes boss. Thanks. Thanks for God knows how much work. Each of these things could hold a hell of a lot of files, and we’ll have to look at them all.’ He counted fourteen disks in the box.

‘Sorry Brian, but you’re right. A complete search does include our friend Mr Amstrad. Just make sure that you don’t alter any of the files as you read them.’

He turned away then turned back towards Mackie. ‘By the way, have you discussed your search procedure with Maggie?’

‘Yes, boss, we’re going about it the same way.’

‘That’s good. We’ll pay her a visit now, to see how big a task she has.’ He made the slightest move towards the door, then turned back again, as if with another afterthought. ‘Brian, let’s try to make life a bit easier for you. Did friend Michael have an address book, or a card index and a diary?’

‘All in one, sir. He had a Filofax. A yuppie’s handbook.’

His smile turned watery as he remembered the black leather personal organiser which Martin always carried, and felt the green eyes boring into him. Skinner picked up the gaffe and laughed. So did Martin. Eventuall Mackie, looking relieved, joined in. From the desk he picked up a heavy brown leather binder secured by a strong clasp. The initials ‘MM’ were picked out in gold leaf in the bottom right comer. He handed it to Skinner.

Rachel Jameson’s flat was also in a New Town block, but different in style to that of Mortimer. In estate-agent terms, it was a typical Edinburg garden flat, in the basement of what had once been an entire house on four floors. Its entrance was below street level, accessed by a short fligh of steps. French doors opened from the living-room on to a small rear courtyard, which Rachel had brightened with an array of hardy shrubs and flowers, set out in earthenware vessels. Skinner noted, with amuse ment, plants set in two tall chimney-pots, scavenged, no doubt, from a demolished building.

Like Mortimer’s flat, it was part home, part office. Rachel’s files were contained in two steel cabinets which stood, as Maggie Rose showed Skinner and Martin, in a deep cupboard off the hall.

She pulled open the four drawers in the two low cabinets.

‘Fewer documents than Mortimer,’ Skinner remarked.

‘She seems to have been a very neat person, sir. I’ve been right through this flat, while Mario ... ’

‘Who?’

‘DC McGuire, sir. His first name’s Mario.’

‘Jesus Christ, what a mixture. Ice-cream and Guinness! Sorry, go on Maggie.’

... while Mario sorted out the papers. I’ve been trying to judge what sort of a woman this was. To imagine myself as her, in fact.’

‘Very good. So what sort of a picture have you formed? Describe your self to me.’

The red-haired woman hesitated, took a deep breath and began. ‘Well sir, as I’ve said, I’m very neat. My files are in such good order because I’ve summarised all my older ones and destroyed a lot of paper, or archived it in the cellar at the front under the pavement, which I’ve had water-proofed.

‘My diary is meticulous. So are my personal habits and my dress. I use good quality soap and shampoo, not over-priced designer stuff. I bathe or shower at least twice a day - and perhaps not always alone, because there are three big towels on the heated rail. I buy most of my bras, knickers and tights at Marks & Spencer, and my working clothes at Jenners. I use storecards and chargecards rather than cash or cheques, with direct debit arrangements with my bank.

‘I’m reserved and elegant, but I can be a bit sexy too, because I have a collection of rather more exotic underwear, and one or two designer evening dresses that are guaranteed to attract attention. I’d say that I like sex, but only as a shared experience. By that I mean, if I may be blunt that I like making love but not screwing. When I dress sexy it’s for my partner’s pleasure as much as mine.

‘My reading list shows that I’m a very thoughtful person. I don’t throw books away. Some I read over and over again. I like Tolkein, I like Leon Uris. I like Solzhenitsyn. I like Tom Sharpe’s early novels, the one that take the piss out of the South African police, but I ignore the rest of his stuff because I think it’s sexist.

‘My taste in music is broad, but I’m no musician. I like strong memorable melodies, from Mozart to Mendelssohn, or Marley to Morrison. It says what I think as well as now I feel. There’s a Marley on my player right now, with three songs programmed — this is true, sir, it must have been like that since the last time she walked out - “Buffalo Soldiers”, “Get Up, Stand Up”, and “Redemption Song”, all of them strong political statements.

‘As an advocate, I’m part of the establishment. Yet when I conside my taste in literature and in music, I have to admit to myself that I’m drawn to the side of the poor people. I’m for what I regard as good against evil, and some of my beliefs and causes would be regarded as pretty left wing. If I felt something strongly enough, I’d go all the way. I have the determination to do that.’