Skinner's Trail (34 page)

Eighty-nine

‘N
ow isn't that interesting, boys?
’
.

Skinner looked at Andy Martin and Brian Mackie across the low coffee table. He had fidgeted his way through the excellent Balmoral lunch, through the diffident speech by the Heart of Midlothian manager, and through the rather more fulsome address by the club chairman. But even before the applause had died away, he had called headquarters for a pickup car.

Now, back in his office, Andy Martin caught his mood at once. 'Isn't it just, boss. It's just a wee thread, but who knows what it's tied into. Alberni and Inch, two of the very few people who either knew about the InterCosta fraud or were linked into it, have both wound up dead. Now we find out that Tony Manson, who bank-rolled the company in the first place, was told about it too — just before he died a violent death.'

`Spot on,' said Skinner, 'Maybe a pure coincidence, but it's something that makes alarm bells go off in our policemen's minds. So what are we going to do about it?' He glanced at Brian Mackie.

`There's only one thing left for us to do, sir, as I see it anyway, and that's to pull in Richard Cocozza. Ainscow's done his runner: we may never see him again. We've been waiting either for Lucan to show, or for some lucky break that might
kick-start the investigation again. This may be all the luck we're going to get. We've found out that Manson knew about the fraud. Did it come as a surprise to him? Was he bothered about it? Did he talk to anyone about it? Wee Cocozza's the only person left for us to ask. Let's have him in.'

Skinner looked at Andy Martin. The blond head nodded.

`Right. I agree. Go and get him, lads. Bring him here, rather than taking him to Torphichen Place. Let's make the wee bugger feel important. Let's give him the Head Office treatment.'

Ninety

‘Y
ou are certain that he's in there, Mario?'

Abso-bloody-lutely, sir. He left here at eight thirty-two, and walked to his office in Queen Street. I tailed him myself, and young John brought the car round. He left again at eleven fifty-three and walked back here. I tailed him again. Here he's been ever since; that's, what, three hours and a quarter. All that time I've been watching the front door, and John's been watching the garden gate.'

'Is there a Mrs Cocozza?'

Not here, sir. They separated a year ago.'

Richard Cocozza's flat was on the ground floor of a converted grey stone mill-house on the banks of the Water of Leith, where the river wound its way through Dean Village, a city-centre enclave whose quaintness had been eroded by the attempts of various property developers to make it exclusive. The entry-phone system seemed to be in working order, but repeated pressing of the button alongside the name `Cocozza' had produced not a sound from the
intercom.

`Try another,' said Martin.

Mario McGuire began to press other buttons in turn, beginning with the other ground-floor flats, and working up the building. On the fourth attempt there was a response.

`Yes?' A male voice answered, sleep-sodden even through the tinniness of the speaker.

`Sorry to disturb you, sir, but this is the police. We have to call on one of the flats in this building. Could you come
d
own and let us in, please.'

`Yeah, sure.'

Less than a minute later, a dishevelled young man in a blue towelling robe emerged from the lift, which faced the glass entry door. He walked barefoot across the hall, and turned the wheel of the Yale lock. 'I suppose I should ask to see—'

Before he could finish his sentence, McGuire held up his warrant card.

`Of course you should, sir. Sorry we had to wake you. Nightshift, are you?'

The man nodded. 'This week anyway. I work in the bakery in Leith.'

`Okay, you get back to sleep, then. We'll make as little noise as we can.

`Which may have to be quite a lot,' muttered Martin, as the steel lift doors closed.

The entrance to Cocozza's flat was set back in an alcove off the hall. There was a second bell-push in the centre of the door. Martin pressed it for a good twenty seconds, but its buzz was the only sound from within the apartment. He took his finger from the button. 'Okay, I have reason to believe that there may be a person in this flat who is involved in the commission of crime. Mario, see if you can do it the quick way. If the thing's mortised we may have to send for the locksmith, but try the size elevens first.'

Obediently, McGuire kicked out with his right heel, once, twice, three times. With the third blow, they heard the keeper
of the lock tear loose, and the oak door swung open.

Four doors opened off a central corridor. One, at the end, lay ajar. Martin led the way along the hall and stepped into the
room.

'Oh Jesus. Not another.'

Cocozza was sitting slumped in a dining chair, with his back to the door. He was held in his awkward position by black insulating tape which secured his forearms and ankles to the frame of the chair. He was naked, save for a pair of badly soiled white underpants. On his back, shoulders and upper arms, large angry bruises stood out against the yellowness of his skin. The back of his head was a mass of hair, bone and gristle matted together by blood and brain tissue.

Slowly and hesitantly, the three detectives stepped around the body, being careful not to bump against it, or touch anything in the room. Martin crouched on one knee and looked up into Cocozza's face. It was covered in blood, not only from the cranial wounds, but from the nose and from a cut over the right eye, which was bruised and swollen. A facecloth or small hand towel had been stuffed into the mouth, making the cheeks puff grotesquely.

`Look there, sir.'

Martin followed McGuire's pointing finger. A line of blue circular indentations ran up each shin. Each knee was swollen and distorted. On the stained wooden floor, between Cocozza's feet, a heavy metal-shafted hammer with a black rubber grip lay in a pool of blood and urine.

Martin shuddered as he stood up. 'Mario, did you see anyone go out — anyone at all?'

McGuire shook his head vigorously. 'No, sir. And John was told to call me on the radio if he spotted anyone.'

`Right,' said Martin assertively. 'Guard that front door. Brian, you and I'll search this place
carefully
.'

Splitting up, they moved swiftly through the flat, checking behind every door, in every wardrobe, in every cupboard, even in the shower compartment and the kitchen cabinets, but the house was empty.

`Andy.' Brian Mackie's call drew Martin back to the living room. The tall, thin man was leaning out of the window. For a second Martin thought that he was being sick, until he stood upright once more. 'I think this is how he got away. This window was open. From here he could have dropped down towards the river, and on to the walkway, without being seen by either Mario or young John.'

`How would he have got in?'

With the postman, maybe. It must have been while Cocozza was at his office, and our two weren't here. There were stairs back in the hall leading to basement storage. He could have hidden there till everything was quiet, then picked Cocozza's Yale. From what the boss was saying, it looks like Lucan.'

`Maybe. Let's see-what he thinks. I'll call him now. When he sees this mess he'll wish he hadn't eaten that lunch at the Balmoral!'

Ninety-one

‘P
oor little guy. The last half-hour of his life doesn't bear imagining. Tied up and systematically tortured, then finally dispatched like an animal in a badly-run slaughterhouse.'

Sarah turned to the ambulance crew. 'Okay. If the photographers and technicians are finished, you can take him away now.' At a nod from Skinner, they set to work, noisily ripping off the tape which bound Cocozza's body to the chair.

He put an arm around Sarah's shoulders and, led her from the flat, away from the scene and from its smell, which had grown overpowering. 'Thanks, love, for coming down. Let's get back.' As soon as he had digested Martin's call, he had rushed to Dean Village, calling at home to pick up Sarah and to drop off his beaming secretary as a very willing baby-sitter for Jazz.

They climbed back into Skinner's car. As he drove up the steep incline of Bell's Brae, out of the Village, he glanced towards her. 'Any idea from that back there as to whether our man was waiting for Cocozza inside the flat, or whether the wee chap answered the door?'

`It is essential that you know?'

`No. It's just a small detail but, if I can, I like to know all the
answers.'

Sarah was silent for a few seconds. 'Well, don't stand me up in court and ask me to say this, but there was a single bruise
behind the right ear that didn't look like all the rest. It was a different shape. I'd say that whoever it was had been
waiting
inside the flat already. When Cocozza came in, he stepped up behind him, slugged him, stuffed the towel in his mouth, ripped off his clothing and trussed him up. Then he picked up the hammer, and began to give him tender loving care. So do you think it was your runaway Frenchman taking revenge for his brother?'

As the BMW crossed the high Dean Bridge, Skinner gestured with his left hand. 'The picture fits the frame. Norrie Monklands said Lucan blamed the Scottish end for their being nicked. If Vaudan told him all the detail, who was who, and so on, he'd
know
who to look for, and probably where to go.'

Sarah looked across at him doubtfully. 'Even down to the address?'

He smiled. 'Research document number one: the telephone directory. There aren't too many Cocozzas in the phone-book. Once he got to Edinburgh, he'd have had no problem pinning down the address.

She leaned back in her seat. Her smile was teasing. 'So why don't you believe it was him?'

He grinned back. 'Who says I don't? All the evidence points to Lucan, and I have to go on evidence, not hunches, don't I?' He gripped the steering wheel. 'Tell you one thing. I'm going to find Mr Ainscow, come hell or high tide, and
,
when
I do, he'll sing his heart out just to stay alive. Otherwise I might just let him go — to take his chances with Cocozza's unexpected caller.'

Ninety-two

‘B
oss, since yesterday we've interviewed everyone we can find who knows Ainscow
,
his other golfing buddies apart from Norrie Monklands, the people in his business, both here and in Spain, bankers, lawyers, everyone. Since he disappeared, there hasn't been a trace of the man, not even a withdrawal from a cash machine. We've got nothing else to go on. There were no address books in his house or his office.'

Skinner and Martin, with Maggie Rose as their guest, were lunching in the senior officers' small dining room in the Fettes Avenue Command corridor.

`What about Lucan? What are we doing there?'

Maggie Rose leaned forward to answer Skinner's question. `Just before we came here, I had a call from Crown Office giving us the go-ahead to release a photograph of Lucan to press and television, and to issue a "Do not approach" warning to the public. The ACC Operations has put every one of our traffic cars and pandas on the look-out, and he's arranged for every other force in the UK to do the same. We're watching ports and oil terminals and we're trying to contact every major haulier in the UK, including companies with big in-house lorry fleets, to get them to warn their drivers. Once Alan Royston's press release appears, then the sightings are bound to come rolling in, although you know there's only a slim chance
of a result there. Can't think of anything else that can be done

Skinner nodded in agreement. 'Yes, that covers it, all right He paused as a waitress served his salad. 'Thanks, Jessie.'

He waited till his companions had their main course before them, then looked at Martin. 'About Ainscow, An
dy, y
ou said we'd covered all his contacts. Does that include the Powderhall Sauna?'

The detective superintendent looked up sharply. 'God
,
n
o
it doesn't. Of course, we followed him there twice, and
we’ve
heard that he has a liking for rough trade, in the
female
department. I'll have it checked out this afternoon.'

`Do it yourself, Andy. Lean on the guy with your rank. An
d
take Maggie along with you. You might find that some of t
he
girls are more likely to talk about a punter to another
woman
It's probably just another piece of routine, but you never
know’

Martin nodded. He took a mouthful of steak
and
kidney
pie, then glanced up at Skinner. 'How are we doing on formal identification of Cocozza?'

Not too well. He didn't have any partners in his practice only a qualified assistant and a secretary. As far as we can fin
d
out, there's only one relative, a brother. He's an on-cour
se
bookie in the south of England. All the race meetings dow
n
there are being covered this afternoon. Once we find hi
m
we'll fly him up to complete the formalities. Until then all can say is that we're investigating the murder of an unna
med
man. Officially, no one knows yet that Cocozza's dead!'