Skinner's Rules (6 page)

Skinner was a traditionalist at heart. He was grateful for the added resources which Proud had won through his battles with the Police Committee, and he had more respect than most for his instincts as a policeman.

Once he had defended him in public against a critic within the force. ‘There may be things that the man hasn’t done in his career, but he’s done all he can in the job to learn about them, and to understand the problems of the guys on the ground. And he’s made a point of going alone, on foot in uniform into every one of the toughest places on his patch, places where I would think twice about going. He may not have the sharpest mind on the force, but he’s bloody shrewd, and he’s loyal to his men.’

Proud’s least noticed virtue was the skill with which he spotted potential in his officers, and advanced them, if necessary, ahead of the normal police promotion timetable. He had first noticed Skinner sixteen years earlier, as a recently promoted Detective Sergeant, when Proud himself had just become Chief Constable. He had been impressed by the young man’s intellect, judgement, and most of all by his devotion to the job. He had sensed the driving force which set him apart from his contemporaries. He had made discreet enquiries into his background, and had learned of his widowhood, and the task with which he had been left, of bringing up his young daughter. From that time on Skinner had been his unsuspecting protégé.

Proud had determined that he should become Head of CID at the first opportunity. When the time had come for Skinner’s predecessor, old Alf Stein, to retire, the Chief’s tentative suggestion had met with a ready endorsement, although Skinner was still a relatively newly promoted Detective Superintendent, with only two years seniority in the rank.

‘If you want CID to be tight, efficient and effective, Jimmy, then you’ll give the job to young Bob, no doubt about it.’ Proud had been happy to have his own judgement backed up.

So Bob Skinner had been appointed Head of CID, and as Stein had predicted it had run like clockwork, maintaining the highest detection rate of any Scottish force, and achieving reductions, against the national rend, in the crime figures.

But it was a rattled Proud Jimmy who now took Skinner for a walk in Market Street. ‘Bob, what’s the score here? What have we got on our hands?’

‘Look, Chief, let’s get into my motor. I don’t want the
Record
to snatch a picture of the two of us.’

Proud nodded and the two men climbed into Skinner’s Granada. The Chief was white-faced. Skinner was sympathetic, understanding that viewing the remains of butchered people was out of his normal line of duty.

‘On the face of it, Jimmy, we have what the Yanks like to call a serial killer. My lads prefer to call him a fucking loony. He’s killed four times inside a week, in the same area, in different ways, with no apparent motive other than bloodlust.

‘I won’t try to kid you about our chances of catching this guy from the evidence that he’s left behind him. At best they’re bloody slim. All that we can do for now is make sure, as best we can that he can’t do it again, and be ready to nab him the moment he gets careless. But so far all the luck has been on the bastard’s side; luck, I’m afraid to say, matched with some highly developed killing skills.’

‘What are we going to tell the public?’

‘We’re not going to lie to them. But at the same time we have to try to keep them calm. I was only a wee lad in Lanarkshire when Peter Manuel was on the loose, but one of my earliest memories is of the fear in the air at that time. You remember what Gary Player said about luck? “The harder I work, the luckier I get.” That’s all we’ve got to show the people. Hard work by the police. Every door in this part of town is being knocked. Everyone who lives here, and who works here is being interviewed, then if necessary interviewed again. I’ll have men on the street all night and every night, and I’ll let it be known that some will be armed. The pubs’ll hate it but I’m going to ask the punters to stay away from this area in the late evening, for their own security and to make our job easier.’

‘What if he does it somewhere else?’

‘We’ll spread our resources as wide as we can, and bugger the overtime, and we’ll appeal for general public vigilance, but we’ll concentrate our effort here.’ He looked the grim-faced Proud straight in the eye. ‘Between you and me, I’ve got a funny feeling about this whole business.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ve seen a lot of bad bastards in my time, and more than a few mad ones as well. There’s something about this guy that makes me feel that he’s in a category of his own. Something, but I can’t figure out what it is.’

Proud looked at him for a long silent moment. ‘So what’s the next step?’

‘I’m going to call another press conference, a full-scale one, back at Fettes Avenue this morning. We’ve got to make the media work for us all the way on this one; if they turn on us we’re in real trouble. I was going to chair it, but if you like, I’ll defer to your rank.’

‘No, Bob, you’re Head of CID; you do it... unless you want me up front, that is.’

Skinner smiled for the first time that morning. Suddenly, when the chips were down, he felt closer to this man than ever before. ‘No, Chief, you trusted me when you gave me this job. I won’t drop you into this one!’

Skinner’s press conference began at twelve noon precisely, in a large conference room in the police headquarters, a 1970s building in Fettes Avenue.

Skinner, with Andy Martin for company, sat at a brown formica-topped desk, facing the biggest media audience of his life. With the double murder, media interest in the sequence of killings had mushroomed from the few reporters who had covered the Mortimer death five days earlier.

There were four television crews in the room, four radio reporters, and journalists from every daily newspaper and news agency in Scotland.

He held nothing back. He listed the four murders, beginning with Mortimer, on through the nameless derelict, ending with that day’s news, the killings of Mrs Mary Rafferty, a Scottish Office cleaner, and PC Iain MacVicar, from Stornoway, just twenty-two years old.

For the first time, he described the injuries to each victim, choosing his words with clinical care. He explained that certain forensic evidence had linked the first two killings, and that there was no doubt that all four were the work of the same man. Every avenue, he said, was being explored. Mortimer’s client list had offered no indication that a jailed villain might have sought revenge. He did not believe that the killing of a policeman had been planned by the attacker. MacVicar had been simply unlucky.

He repeated his plea to the public for any information that might be relevant. And he ended with a solemn warning. ‘Until this man is caught, the Royal Mile area is not a place to go after dark without good reason. Avoid it if you can, and if you must go there stick to the broad, well-lit streets.’

Questions flew at him. The first which he took was from an old friend, John Hunter, a veteran freelance. ‘Mr Skinner,’ John was suitably formal, although they were occasional golfing partners, ‘are you consulting other forces in the course of your enquiries?’

‘Yes, we are looking, with colleagues in other areas, throughout the UK, at the possibility that this might be a serial killer.’

He caught a few puzzled looks around the room.

‘Since Saturday’s murder we have been seeking information from other forces, checking for groups of similarly brutal unsolved killings in other communities. We have been in touch also with Interpol, and with the FBI in Washington. One or two lines of enquiry have emerged, but I have to say that none of them look promising.

‘There’s something else to remember. It’s one thing knowing that you have a serial killer on your patch. It’s something else catching him. As soon as an obvious pattern emerges in one area, he usually moves on. That’s why some have lasted so long in the States. Strings of forty or fifty murders have come to light, but rarely more than four or five in a single location.’

‘So are you saying that if we have had a serial killer here, he may have run his course?’

‘It’s possible, John. But no one should make that sort of assumption. It could be fatal.’

Skinner looked around the room.

‘Groups of unsolved murders aren’t as uncommon as people think. Look at the Rippers. The first one was never caught, and the second went on for years. So did Neilsen. And look at Bible John.’

One or two of the old lags nodded. Bible John was a mystery man from the early Sixties in Glasgow, who had murdered a number of young women. Several witnesses had spoken of seeing victims with a young man whose most memorable feature had been a readiness to quote from the Bible, a trait which still makes a man stand out as an oddity in a Glasgow disco.

‘You don’t think there could be a connection here, Mr Skinner?’ asked John Gemmell of the
Express,
ever keen for an angle.

‘Do me a favour! If Bible John is still around, and I hope fervently that he is not, he’d be well over fifty by now. These killings are the work of someone who is agile and pretty strong. Another thing: Bible John’s method was the same every time. This guy varies his methods.’

An English TV reporter, a newcomer to Skinner, raised a hand.

‘Chief Superintendent, are you checking on recent releases from secure hospitals?’

‘Yes, we have done that, and we’re looking further back. But the fact is that when people are released from a secure mental hospital, they normally take time to readjust to society. They are cautious, and tend to stay indoors most of the time. An orgy of violence such as this is most likely to occur in the course of an escape. But even then, few escapees get more than a few miles. They put all their efforts into planning the breakout, then once they’re on the outside, they realise that they haven’t a clue what to do. I have the feeling that we are dealing here with a man who plans every step he takes.’

John Hunter again. ‘Does that mean there could be a motive?’

‘On the face of it, no. But if there is, we’ll find it.’

There were several more questions of detail, on timing, about the murder weapons and about the backgrounds of the four victims. The press conference was dragging naturally to a halt, when William Glass, of the
Scotsman,
raised a hand. Skinner considered Glass to be arrogant and pompous. He also admitted to himself, grudgingly, that the man was a first-class investigative reporter.

‘Chief Superintendent, with due deference to you, might one ask why the Chief Constable himself is not here, and why he has not been seen to have taken personal charge of such an important investigation?’

There was a shuffling of feet among the other journalists. John Hunter looked across angrily at his colleague.

For a time it looked as if Skinner would ignore the question. He glared at the man with the same look he had fixed on hundreds of suspects as they protested innocence, until Glass broke the eye-contact and looked away, flustered.

‘Mr Glass.’ A formal address by Skinner was his form of rebuke to the media and they all knew it. ‘The Chief is in charge of this enquiry. I report to him as Head of CID. I am also answerable to the public. That’s why I’m here talking to you when I could be out knocking doors with my lads.

‘I have been the spokesman since the first murder. The Chief Constable feels that it is important that I continue in that role, as the man with the most detailed knowledge of the enquiries. That is the channel of communication which he wishes to maintain.’ His voice rose and hardened. ‘If you want to maintain it you will oblige me by ensuring that your questions are relevant and pertinent.’

Skinner looked around the room. ‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen; this conference is closed!’

As the door closed behind him, Skinner heard John Hunter begin to harangue Glass, to murmurs of approval from his colleagues. He knew that he should have kept his temper in check, but it had been a hard week.

He was still seething quietly when he reached the gym. Since his teens karate had been one of his favourite sports. He had maintained it on reaching high rank, partly as an example to his troops, but also because it compelled him to keep up a high standard of fitness. He changed into his whites, tied on his black belt, and went into the gym, to the club which he had helped to found.

The instructor was a newcomer. He was an army drill sergeant who had been sent along, at Skinner’s request to try to improve standards. Skinner was prepared to stay in the background, his normal practice, and work on coaching beginners, but the soldier, with a trace of cockiness, singled him out.

‘Shall we work out, sir? Let’s show these people what it’s all about.’

Skinner sighed and nodded. They exchanged bows and moved to the centre mat, surrounded by a group of around twenty policemen and women in white tunics. Skinner was aware, suddenly, for the first time ever, that he was the oldest person in the room.

The thought was still in his mind when the man kicked him painfully on the left calf.

‘Just trying to get your mind on the job, sir.’

Cheeky bastard, thought Skinner. But he did not react. The cocky look grew in the man’s eyes. Another flashing kick caught the tall detective on the right thigh.

‘Still haven’t got your attention, sir.’

Skinner feinted to his right, then pivoted on the ball of his left foot. His right toes, bunched, jabbed the inside of the soldier’s thigh, with force. The foot swept up, the outside edge slamming into the testicles. The leg retracted, then swung up and round, until the foot slammed into the soldier’s left temple. Clutching his groin, the sergeant collapsed in a crumpled heap.

‘You’re wrong, son,’ said Skinner to the white-clad figure. ‘I couldn’t take my bloody eyes off you. Class dismissed!’

He took a quick shower and caught up with Andy Martin in his office. One of the detective constables in the class had beaten him there from the gym, carrying the news that the boss had kicked the shit out of the karate instructor.