‘Sorry,’ she replied as she stood too. ‘I’ve got a date.’
‘Another lawyer?’
‘Worse, a banker. Nobody you know.’
‘I do tend to avoid them. Back to the case: anyone in mind for the investigator role?’
‘I’m thinking Carrie McDaniels,’ she said. ‘That’s one reason why I’m here, to pick your brains about her. Do you think she’s up to it?’
Skinner stretched his back as he considered the question. ‘Who would your alternative be?’ he ventured. ‘One of a string of ex-cops who would do a routine job but wouldn’t really give a fuck. Carrie’s capable, she’s not as brash as she used to be, and she knows the ropes. She should do; I showed her where most of them are. Yeah, go for her.’
Four
‘Are you remembering you have a meeting in Chambers Street at ten thirty?’ Clarice Meadows asked her boss. ‘About Mr Paton, your arsonist?’
‘Don’t say it like that!’ Alex protested, standing framed by the doorway, clad in the tracksuit and trainers in which she had walked to work. ‘You make it sound like I employ him. No, I haven’t forgotten; I have a clean blouse in my wardrobe, hanging beside my suit. I bought it yesterday lunchtime.’
She liked her new assistant; she was two years short of her fiftieth, and had been recruited from the civil service, where she had worked since the birth of her second child, who had just turned twenty-one. Her career change had been prompted, as she had explained at interview, by the way the service had become factionalised, with an unofficial elite being created by the patronage of ministers, and a culture of secrecy that she abhorred. It had been accelerated when she had expressed that view directly to the Environment Secretary within earshot of the First Minister’s chief of staff. She had brought an air of stability to Alex’s office; regardless of her title, she was effectively the practice manager, and made sure that her boss and Johanna DaCosta, the associate, were always on time for meetings and court appearances, and fully briefed. There was something maternal about her too that Alex liked and, although she would never admit it, needed.
‘How was your date?’ Clarice asked, almost coyly.
‘Ondine’s always good,’ she replied.
‘That wasn’t what I meant, and you know it.’
‘Satisfactory.’ Alex shrugged, and smiled. ‘Okay, I might as well get it all on the record. James Hayes and I met when I was at CAJ. He’s thirty-seven, just gone through his second divorce and I have no intention of being his third. We had an enjoyable dinner, we talked about old times, and somewhere along the line I decided that I didn’t want to have sex with him, so when we were finished, I got the bill, he got a taxi and I walked down the Royal Mile and home. You know how it is: you look at him, you think about it, you ask yourself, “Would it be memorable?” You decide “Nah”, so you don’t bother.’
‘Mmm.’ Clarice pursed her lips. ‘Sometimes I wish I did know how it is. Mr Meadows and I celebrated our silver wedding the year before last. There are times when I wish I could put him in a taxi and go home, and I’m sure he would say much the same. Memorable? Sorry, boss, I can’t remember that far back. But I do believe this: when the most lovable thing about a husband is his dick, you’ve made the wrong choice. Now,’ she said abruptly, ‘about your arsonist. Are you fully briefed for that meeting, or is there anything else you need to know?’
‘I’m up to speed, as far as I can be. I’m not going along there to talk about a plea, I’m afraid. The psychiatric reports, ours and the prosecution’s, which you haven’t seen, are unanimous in diagnosing Mr Paton as suffering from a serious personality disorder. He’s schizophrenic.’
‘Jekyll and Hyde?’
‘Both of those people. The man who was caught on CCTV setting the fire that burned down his child’s school after he was dropped from the rugby team isn’t the Mr Paton who walks around normally, sings in the church choir and does the Saltire crossword every day. He’s another person entirely, and if the Crown’s allegations are true, that wasn’t his first fire. The garage that screwed up the service of his car three years ago, that was burned out too, as was his doctor’s house when he was fifteen and his mother died. There’s no way the man’s fit to plead.’
‘What’ll happen to him?’
‘Maybe he’ll go to the bad fire,’ Alex murmured quietly.
‘Eh?’
‘Sorry, bad taste irony. I was just thinking about something my dad said last night. Paton’ll be sectioned and transferred into the custody of the state as a psychiatric patient. Most likely he’ll go to the hospital at Carstairs.’
‘For how long?’ Clarice asked.
‘Until he can be safely returned to society. That could mean never; the parole system has no locus in there.’
She checked her watch; it showed eight fifty-six. ‘My nine o’clock will be here any minute. Show her straight in when she arrives, okay? Then there is something you could do for me. Find out all you can about a business called LuxuMarket. Mr Brass’s wife was done for shoplifting there, but it’s a new one on me. A supermarket in Kilmarnock; beyond that I know nothing. I’m told it’s closed down, but does that mean it’s gone bust or been acquired by someone else? Who owned it nine years ago? Who owns it now? What was its planning history? You should find that out from the West Coast Council. Also, I need as much as you can get me on its leader, Councillor Gloria Stephens, public life and private. If you can put together a timeline of her career, I’d like to know what she was doing nine or ten years ago.’
Her assistant nodded, then turned at the ‘ping’ triggered by the office entrance door opening. Alex’s eyes followed, taking in their visitor as she stepped through: a fair-haired woman, her face showing signs of sunburn, a little shorter than Alex herself, in the same age bracket, dark eyes narrowed, and tight-lipped. She wore a business suit and carried a black folder.
‘Carrie,’ Alex called out. ‘Welcome and thanks for being on time. I’m on a tight schedule.’
‘Me too,’ the newcomer replied. ‘You’re lucky I could fit you in, given that you only called me at seven last night.’
‘Then I’m all the more grateful,’ she said, trying to keep her instant irritation from showing in her eyes. Her father had warned her that Carrie McDaniels could be abrasive as he had outlined her CV: a claims assessor with an insurance company, coupled with service in the Territorial Army military police in locations including Afghanistan, before giving everything up for the precarious life of a private enquiry agent.
‘Come through to my office,’ she continued. ‘Clarice, if you could let me have your first findings while Ms McDaniels is with us, that might be helpful,’
She led the way to her room, unzipping her tracksuit top as she stepped inside, instantly recalling that she was wearing only a sports bra underneath and closing it again. Not that informal, Alex, she thought.
‘Welcome again,’ she said as she took a seat at the conference table. The folder that David Brass had given her was there, as she had left it the night before. ‘Since we both seem to be tight for time, I’ll dispense with the standard offer of coffee and get straight to business. I’ve been asked to put some heat into a very cold case, and I’m going to need an investigator, to conduct a series of interviews, explore anomalies and see where they go. It’ll require initiative, as long as I’m kept aware of everything that’s happening, as it happens.’
‘This sounds like a job for your father,’ McDaniels observed, ‘or is it below his pay grade?’
‘Probably above,’ Alex retorted. ‘I get a discount. This isn’t one he’d feel comfortable with, for various reasons.’
‘In that case, can your client afford me?’ McDaniels unzipped her folder, took out a small leaflet and laid it on the table. ‘That’s my schedule of fees and expenses.’
‘I know what you cost: I didn’t only ask my dad about you. It won’t be a problem, unless this thing lasts much longer than I envisage. How busy are you? Can you take this on?’
&
nbsp; ‘What’s the location?’ the investigator asked.
‘I can’t say for sure,’ Alex admitted. ‘The incident that triggered this whole thing took place in Ayrshire, but the people involved may have moved away from there by now. Some may be dead; the woman at the centre of it all certainly is, which is why we’re here.’
Carrie McDaniels’ expression changed, as reservation gave way to engagement for the first time. ‘What is this?’ she murmured. ‘Is it a homicide?’
‘My client might argue that it was, of sorts. He would argue that his ex-wife was hounded to her death. You and I, we can be more objective than that.’ Alex pushed the folder across the table. ‘The story’s in there; read it for yourself. You’ll want to make notes as you go, for you can’t take it away. It’s a copy of a prosecution case file and I only have my client’s word about how it came into his possession.’
‘Are you saying that it might be stolen?’
‘I’m not saying a damn thing, Carrie; the person who gave it to my client’s son might have had the authority, but to keep myself in the Lord Advocate’s good books I have to assume that he didn’t. I have a meeting at the Crown Office at ten thirty, and I intend to take it with me. I’ll return it, in the hope that they’ll give it back and legitimise my possession, but just in case they don’t, read through it quickly and thoroughly and get as much as you can out of it.’
‘Can’t you take a photocopy?’
‘Not until I have it in my own right.’
‘Okay,’ McDaniels agreed, ‘but my clock starts ticking now.’
‘As far as I’m concerned, it started ticking the moment you walked into this office. You can use my associate’s room; she’s in the sheriff court this morning. I have a few things to clear up here before I head up to Chambers Street.’
The other woman nodded and picked up the file. ‘Once I’ve got to grips with it, I’ll have an idea of what I need to do. I’ll draw up a schedule, work out the time commitment and give you an idea of approximate costs and expenses.’
‘What about your other clients?’
‘Thanks for assuming they exist,’ Carrie chuckled. ‘That’s not a problem. I have an associate too; he’s a retired cop, name of Charlie Johnston, stolid but thorough.’
‘Ha,’ Alex exclaimed. ‘I know Charlie. He started in the job on the same day as my dad. He never looked like reaching the second rung on the ladder, but as Sir Bob is fond of saying, if you don’t take any risks you won’t make many mistakes.’
She was still smiling as her office door closed and she turned to her in-tray to check the morning’s mail. It was almost empty when Clarice Meadows knocked and walked in.
‘A little progress,’ she announced. ‘Nothing yet on Councillor Stephens, but . . . I have a friend in the Labour Party central office that I know from my civil service days. I’ve spoken to him about her, and he’s promised to ask around and report back.’
‘Will he be discreet?’
‘The soul thereof. That party is so fucking toxic now that everything is done in behind-the-hand whispers that can never be pinned down to anyone. He knows the woman only by reputation, and that isn’t good, but he’s going to ask people who work for her on the basis that he’s been asked to put together an action group on global warming and he’s sounding out potential candidates.’
‘What about LuxuMarket?’
‘That was much easier,’ Clarice said. ‘It’s all online, start to finish. It even has a Wikipedia page, although what sort of anorak took the time to set it up, I cannot imagine. LuxuMarket was the trading name of a company registered as LX Retail Space plc. It was founded in nineteen ninety-nine, with a single outlet in Kilmarnock. Initially it traded as LX; the LuxuMarket branding was developed later. It traded successfully, with continuous growth until it was acquired seven years ago by a venture capital company, which turned it into a household products warehouse. The takeover was a cash deal, rather than equities, worth eight million, so the founder must have walked away happy. Eighty per cent of the equity of LuxuMarket was held by an offshore investment trust called Abuelo Incorporated. Wikipedia isn’t forthcoming about who owns that, as it’s registered in the Cayman Islands, but it’s assumed to be Scottish capital because of the location of the store.’
As she finished, she saw that Alex was frowning. ‘What’s up?’ she asked, curious.
‘Did you say Abuelo?’ Alex retorted.
‘Yes.’ Clarice spelled the word letter by letter, watching a smile play at the corners of her boss’s mouth. ‘I believe it’s Spanish for grandfather.’
‘It couldn’t be,’ Alex murmured. ‘It couldn’t be,’ she repeated, as the smile turned into a broad grin. ‘But I’ll bloody bet that it is.’
Five
‘What does it feel like to have one surname for your first eighteen years, then having to get used to another?’
Ignacio Centelleos Skinner Watson pondered the question for a few seconds before replying. ‘You could ask my mother the same thing. Women in Britain change their names when they marry, do they not?’
‘Touché,’ Cameron McCullough acknowledged. ‘It isn’t normal for a boy your age, though.’
‘Not normal perhaps, but I am not unique. Wasn’t Elton John called Reg for the first years of his life? I could have kept the name on my identity card in Spain. I didn’t mind being Ignacio Centelleos Watson, but I did feel like an outsider. I’ve never heard of anyone else called Centelleos, not even in Spain, and there are absolutely no Watsons. Having taken Skinner as my first surname gives me a proper sense of identity for the first time. When you’ve grown up without a father to acknowledge, and without even knowing who he is . . . I must leave you to imagine what that feels like.’
‘I suppose.’
‘So now I have a father,’ Ignacio continued, ‘and he is an important man. More than that, I have a stepfather and so is he.’
McCullough laughed; the restaurant was empty, and they were alone. ‘Not many people would call me important, son. They’d call me a few things, but not that.’
‘Why not? You own radio stations, you own this hotel. You own part of a football club. That makes you important.’
‘Does it? Ownership itself, it doesn’t matter. It’s what you do with your property that determines how people think of you. That’s if they know it’s yours. I’ve never put my own name over the door anywhere. Everything I have is tied up in companies. I’m invisible.’
‘In that case, your cloak is failing. I have only been here for a few days, but I’ve seen the way people look at you; not only the staff, the customers as well. They know who you are, and you have their respect. Me, the young waiter, the boy who clears the tables? They don’t even know I’m there.’
His stepfather winked at him. ‘Apart from the women. I’ve seen the way they look at you too, the way they eye you up.’
‘Now you make fun of me, Cameron.’
‘No, I don’t. I’m serious. You don’t realise it, but there’s something about you that draws attention. It’s no mystery where it comes from either; it’s your dad. He and I have never exactly played on the same team, but I respect him, not least because he has power. Okay, you could give it another name – magnetism, authority – but whatever it is it comes off him in waves. I’ve only ever met a couple of people who came close to matching him; one of them is dead, and the other your father put away for life. You’ve inherited it, son, and you’ve got your mother’s genes in you as well; that’s a hell of a cocktail. Mia Watson’s recklessness and Bob Skinner’s ruthlessness.’
‘You make it sound as if I’m a bomb waiting to explode,’ Ignacio said.
‘You have done already, remember, although that was your mother’s fault more than yours.’
‘What are you telling me, Cameron?’ he asked.
‘Be aware of yourself. Don’t be reckless, like your mother can be, and don’t be as cruel as your father can be.’
‘Cruel? My father? You don’t know him!’ t
he young man protested. ‘I see him at home with the kids and with Alex, my sister. He couldn’t be more gentle.’
‘But you don’t see him at work,’ McCullough countered. ‘Bob Skinner only gets to gentle when he’s worked through all the other options.’
‘You don’t like him, do you?’
‘That’s the bugger of it: I do.’ He hesitated. ‘Has he ever talked to you about me? Like really talked to you?’
‘No,’ Ignacio admitted. ‘When I said I was coming here to work in the summer, he was a little hesitant at first, but not for long. What could he tell me?’
‘Stuff: rumour, legends, all about me, none of them ever proved, fewer of them true than false, and most that weren’t fiction were really down to Goldie, my crazy sister, God rest her. I have always been a legitimate businessman, Ignacio. Before I’d even finished qualifying as a chartered accountant, I inherited and ran my father’s building business. It was nothing when he died, but by the time I was twenty-five, it was the biggest in the east of Scotland, and I’d already started branching out, taking stakes in other businesses and growing them. I’ve always had good judgement, had the courage to back it with cash, and over the years I have made a hell of a lot of money. I still do. But alongside me there was fucking Goldie, who saw business in a completely different way. She got into all sorts of stuff – drugs, money laundering, you name it. The police called it organised crime; the press couldn’t, but the stories spread. I was even arrested once: someone disappeared, a quantity of Class A drugs was found, and I was charged. The truth was that Goldie thought she could get by without me, and set me up, but she bribed the wrong people. The cases against me collapsed, and finally I brought her under control. Ignacio, if I was everything the police said I was, I’d have made her disappear, but I didn’t. We reached an understanding that held good until she died.’
The Bad Fire (Bob Skinner series, Book 31): A shocking murder case brings danger too close to home for ex-cop Bob Skinner in this gripping Scottish crime thriller Page 5
