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

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘Very,’ he replied. ‘An organised crime thing, around twenty years ago. The place was closed as the baths but was waiting for conversion into whatever the hell it’s been since then. Somebody used it to torture a poor bastard to death. The pool was empty, but the high board was still there; the victim was dropped off it, then carried back up to the top and dropped again, and again, until there was no point in doing it any more. I was called to the scene because of the gang involvement; the lad was Tony Manson’s driver and someone was sending Tony a message.’

  ‘Did you catch the perpetrators?’

  ‘Of course.’ He stared at McClair, unsmiling. ‘It had a fairly bloody conclusion.’ He winced. ‘The whole thing was bloody, now I think about it. A couple of good things came out of it, though, one being it was the first time I met Mario McGuire. He was a plod then, until I had him seconded to my team.’ He smiled faintly. ‘The flash bastard turned up for his first day wearing a designer suit. I had to tell him that the name of the game was not to draw attention to yourself; rather the opposite.’

  ‘Who was the victim?’

  ‘There were a few at the end of the day, but the unfortunate high diver was a lad named Marlon Watson. I heard you bumped into his sister yesterday.’

  ‘Sister?’ the DI repeated.

  ‘Mia McCullough. She was Mia Watson then . . . as well as Mia Sparkles, which she still is.’

  ‘Is that why she disappeared?’ McClair asked. ‘Was she afraid they were after her too?’

  Skinner laughed bitterly. ‘I doubt Mia was ever afraid of anything in her life. No, she left for other reasons.’

  ‘Those being?’

  ‘Those being ancient history, Sauce.’ He nodded towards the Caffè Nero sign at the top of the rise. ‘Come on, you two. My body clock’s telling me it’s my coffee time.’

  ‘It’s always your coffee time, gaffer,’ Haddock chuckled.

  The two officers each ordered a flat white, while Skinner asked for a cappuccino with an extra shot. McClair chose an eclair, Haddock a slice of rocky road; Skinner had nothing at all. ‘Is that how you keep the weight off?’ McClair asked him. ‘Strong coffee and no food?’

  ‘I don’t keep it off,’ he retorted. ‘I weigh eighty-nine kilos, give or take a few grams, and I have done since I was twenty. I eat what I like, I run, I play golf, and I have a kick-around with my Thursday football mates whenever I can, which is usually at least twice a month. Maybe the coffee helps, but it is what it is.’

  ‘Terry used to play squash,’ she said. ‘He was okay, but every time he lost, he came home in a filthy temper. Eventually it just tapered off; I think he ran out of people to play with.’

  ‘Squash is all about control, patience and self-discipline, I reckon. I played until I made ACC, then I just got too busy.’

  ‘I’ll stick to golf,’ Haddock volunteered. ‘I’m crap at everything else.’

  They allowed Sarah the hour she had specified, and another ten minutes, before making their way back to the mortuary. When they arrived, she was still at work, but the relics on the table had spread to another and had taken on outlines that were almost recognisable as human.

  ‘What you have here,’ she announced when she was ready, ‘are the remains of two people, definitely. I can’t be certain that I’ve separated them completely, but I’ve managed it well enough for me to make the most basic determination. The bones on my right are those of Carrie McDaniels. Those on my left are those of a male, identity unknown. I’ve been able to determine this by piecing together the pelvis of each subject, that being the main area of distinction between the male and female skeletons. Women are structured so that babies can get out; men aren’t. That’s as far as I can go with identification, but I did manage to extract traces of marrow from the larger bones of each . . .’ she hesitated, ‘each person. I’ll send them to Dorward in Gartcosh for analysis to see if it’s possible to establish a DNA profile for the male, but with no great optimism. Your best hope is that when you find out who had it in for Ms McDaniels, there’s a second name on their hit list.’

  Forty-Four

  ‘When did you discover this?’ Alex asked, staring at him from her office chair. Her face was ashen beneath her summer tan.

  ‘Yesterday afternoon,’ her father replied. ‘There’s very little doubt that it’s Carrie. I decided not to call you last night, because it’s much better to break news like this in person.’

  ‘God,’ she whispered. ‘The poor woman. Why would anyone . . .’ She stopped mid sentence. ‘It has to be connected to the work she was doing for me . . . hasn’t it?’

  ‘Ninety per cent, I’d say; maybe the whole ton.’

  ‘They killed her? Those men? Then they did that with her body?’ She shuddered, overwhelmed by a wave of dread. ‘And they were in my home. Pops, I’ve had some sticky moments in my life, but I’ve never felt threatened the way I do right now. I feel safe at Dominic’s, but even so, I lay awake last night thinking . . . and it dawned on me properly, for the first time, what might have happened if Griff hadn’t been there. And if we both hadn’t been at a loose end, he wouldn’t have been.’

  ‘That’s why you stay with Dominic until they’re apprehended. That’s good, yes?’

  She nodded. ‘That’s good,’ she agreed. ‘But I feel guilty now about not having been to visit Griff.’

  ‘I have,’ Bob revealed. ‘I called in on him yesterday evening, on the way back from Lauder. I wanted to thank him. He’s still in the Royal. They’re keeping him for a couple of days,’ he explained, ‘to make sure there’s no nerve damage. They don’t think there is; they’re just playing safe. It’s as well; it’ll give the wound more time to heal properly. It’s in an awkward place – makes sitting very difficult.’

  ‘Ah, poor boy,’ Alex sighed. ‘How was he, apart from the cut?’

  ‘Angry. It’s made him all the more determined to get out of uniform and back into CID.’

  ‘Can you help with that?’ she asked.

  ‘I offered to put a word in, but he asked me not to; he wants to work his way back. He has a plan.’

  ‘Not one he’s shared with me.’

  ‘Why should he? It’s not as if the two of you are in a serious relationship . . . are you?’

  ‘No. It’s comfortable, no more than that. But I should still visit him in hospital. I owe him a very big thank you. Dominic’s picking me up at five thirty. I’ll try to talk him into taking me there.’ She paused. ‘Carrie’s death is going to be all over the news, isn’t it? Will my involvement become public knowledge?’

  ‘No chance,’ her father promised. ‘One of the city freelances did file a report about a police incident at your address on Sunday morning, but the press office was told to describe it as a domestic incident, so nobody carried it. June Crampsey noticed it and asked me about it, knowing that you live in that block. I didn’t lie to her; well, not exactly. I told her that I was aware, but that it was not for publication.’

  A half-smile crossed her face. ‘Conflict of interest?’ she suggested.

  ‘No way, kid. Your best interests always come first with me.’

  Forty-Five

  Detective Constable Jackie Wright prided herself on being self-aware. She saw herself as a workhorse, and was comfortable with that. She had an eye on the promotion that she believed she deserved, but only for financial reasons. She was single, by choice rather than circumstance, and intended to remain so; she would always have to provide for herself.

  She knew that she spent more time in the office than her colleagues, that she was seen as a reliable administrator and back-watcher. Those roles sat comfortably with her, and so when Sauce Haddock, Sammy Pye or Noele McClair went out on inquiries, she felt no resentment.

  Every task was a challenge, some more than others. For example, tracking down the movements of the ill-fated Carrie McDaniels was likely to be essential to the investigation of her murder. She felt a buzz when she was able to report the use of her credit card in Ea
st Kilbride. That was her bit done, her part played; it was up to Sauce and Noele to establish why she had been there.

  When Akram, the guy from BT, called her back, she felt an even greater surge of excitement. ‘I have something for you,’ he said. ‘I’ve located all the material that the subject stored on our Cloud facility, and I’m in a position to send it to you. To summarise, you were after updates over the last week; these all relate to her diary, appointments she made with times, locations and the people she was meeting. She didn’t post anything else. If you were looking for more than that, you’ll be disappointed, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I’ll be happy with anything you’ve got,’ Wright replied, ‘for I doubt we’ll recover it from anywhere else, not now. Is there anything for Saturday in the material you’ve recovered?’

  ‘I’d need to recheck to be sure, but I don’t think so. Want me to?’

  ‘No, just send it; and thanks for your help and co-operation.’

  Wright leaned back, watching her computer screen, and waited. It was only a few seconds before an email with an attachment hit her inbox. She clicked on the file and found herself looking at the last week of Carrie McDaniels’ diary, at the last entries she would ever make.

  The first was on Sunday: Dad, lunch. Drif t. She thought the venue was misspelled until she remembered a beach-side café just past North Berwick on the East Lothian coast road.

  Monday had two entries each, but Wright ignored them, focusing on the next two, the first on Tuesday, the second on Wednesday; the name on the first read Alex Skinner, while the second was Alex, Brass.

  ‘Briefings,’ she muttered, then moved on to the only Thursday entry. It read 12.00. Cedric Black, Millport! She smiled at the exclamation point. Friday was more cryptic. Two meetings were listed; the first read 11.30. Saughton.

  ‘Saughton?’ she repeated. ‘What the hell does that mean?’ She ran a very short list of potential meanings through her mind. ‘Surely not,’ she whispered.

  She picked up her phone and ran a Google search for HMP Edinburgh; within seconds, she saw a number displayed. She held the cursor on it until it dialled automatically.

  ‘Edinburgh Prison,’ a gruff male voice said. I don’t suppose it wants to sound welcoming, she thought.

  ‘Morning,’ she began as cheerfully as she could. ‘Governor’s office, please.’

  ‘Who wants it?’

  She let the friendly approach lapse. ‘DC Jackie Wright, Serious Crimes, Edinburgh; I’m part of a homicide investigation.’

  ‘Okay, hold on.’

  She waited for half a minute as the call was transferred. ‘Governor’s secretary here,’ a smoother female voice advised her. ‘You’re police, I’m told.’

  Wright identified herself for a second time. ‘We’re investigating a murder; the victim’s an Edinburgh woman, Ms Carrie McDaniels.’

  ‘That’s a murder now?’ the secretary exclaimed. ‘She’s no longer missing?’

  ‘Unfortunately that’s the case. I have reason to believe that Ms McDaniels visited the prison on Friday morning, at half eleven. I’d like to know who she visited. Can you find out?’

  ‘Mmm. It wasn’t arranged through this office, I can tell you that. Does she have a friend among the prison population?’

  ‘Not that I know of. My feeling is that it was part of an investigation she was carrying out.’

  ‘Then leave it with me. I’ll check with the assistant governors and come back to you.’

  Wright thanked her and left her mobile number and direct landline, then turned to the second Friday entry. It was timed at 16.30, the location was Motherwell, and the entry showed three letters: WZB.

  ‘Who the hell is WZB?’ she pondered. Once again she picked up her phone and turned to Google. To her surprise, she found herself facing four options: a rare minerals mine in Western Australia, a legal practice in Los Angeles, a Bollywood actor, and finally, a steel stockholder in Motherwell, North Lanarkshire.

  Wondering how Carrie McDaniels’ search had led her into the steel industry, she dialled its number on her landline. Her call went straight to voicemail. ‘This is Detective Constable Jackie Wright from the police in Edinburgh; I believe you may be able to help me with my inquiries.’ She left both her numbers and hung up.

  Returning to her computer, she clicked on the last page of the diary: Saturday, the day the woman had gone missing. ‘Bugger!’ she grunted.

  There were only two entries; the first read 10.00 Terry Coats, Edinburgh Airport. Wright peered at the name. ‘Shit, the sarge’s husband.’ She moved on to the second entry: 19.00 GP. Sage, Newcastle. Malmaison.

  ‘Damn it,’ she muttered. The afternoon was blank.

  Forty-Six

  ‘I think we’ve been given the vessel with the pestle, boss,’ DS John Cotter observed.

  Mann stared at him. ‘Run that past me again.’

  ‘I’m a movie geek,’ he explained. ‘More than that, actually,’ he added, embarrassed. ‘My degree was in film studies. There’s a classic with Danny Kaye, The Court Jester, that’s on every course for dialogue coaches. There’s a scene about a pellet of poison that’s put in a drinking vessel with the image of a pestle on it. He’s not supposed to drink that; his is in a chalice with the sign of a palace on it.’

  The DCI’s eyes widened even more. ‘And?’

  ‘What I’m saying is that this investigation’s a bit of a poisoned chalice?’

  ‘You mean that was missed at the crime scene?’

  ‘No, boss. I mean . . .’ He stopped as he saw her grin.

  ‘Sergeant, I can only imagine what Dan Provan would be saying if he was here. As he isn’t, I’ll do it for him – cleaned up a bit. Henceforth your official police nickname is “Hitchcock”. Get used to it, live with it; it will follow you all through your career, just as “Sauce” follows DI Haddock through in Edinburgh . . . and everywhere else. As for the analogy,’ she continued, ‘if we play this right, we have definitely got the chalice with the palace with the brew that’s true.’

  ‘That’s a misquotation, boss. It’s “the chalice from the palace”, not “with”. Get it?’

  She showed him a middle finger. ‘Get this, Hitchcock?’

  He drew a breath, then nodded. ‘Loud and clear. It doesn’t ease my worries, though. We’ve been landed with a murder investigation based on a flawed autopsy nine years ago, but with no supporting physical evidence. The body’s long gone, so it can’t be re-examined. Professor Scott might be an expert witness, but suppose we did find the person . . .’

  ‘Or people.’

  ‘. . . or people,’ he conceded, ‘who injected the victim with enough morphine to see off a Grand National winner; the only evidence against him – them – would be Scott’s theory, and the defence would find another expert witness to say the opposite.’

  ‘But we have got more than that,’ she pointed out. ‘From a single interview we now know that there was a second witness present during the post-mortem, and a third who tried to get in but wasn’t allowed. Why was the second man there, and why was he talking to Banks before the examination? Who was the woman, and why was she so agitated? They’re witnesses, and they need to be found and interviewed. Then there’s the Oramorph itself. What happened to the capsules and the packaging? The suicide theory was underpinned by Marcia Brown’s job. She was a hospital manager and the conclusion was that she used her position to acquire the drugs that killed her. Conclusion,’ she repeated, ‘but based on what? Was that supposition ever proved or even investigated? Lots of questions, Hitchcock, and one man might have the answers.’

  ‘That being?’

  ‘That being the one living person, other than Marguerite Swanson, we know was at the examination, and at the scene of the crime too. Detective Sergeant, as was, Terry Coats. We need to find him and interview him. He’s our top priority.’

  Forty-Seven

  ‘Has Sir Robert always been so passionate about his coffee?’ Noele McClair asked, walking into the Seri
ous Crimes office.

  ‘For as long as I’ve known him,’ Haddock said. ‘Have you always been so passionate about your eclairs? You had two! Is it something to do with the name?’

  ‘Maybe you shouldn’t start that one, Sauce,’ she ventured.

  ‘True.’ He looked at DC Wright, who had risen from her chair as they entered. ‘Jackie,’ he exclaimed, ‘you don’t need to get up just because we come into a room.’

  She looked back at him kindly. ‘I didn’t. I heard the sarge mention coffee and it flipped my switch; I’ve been at it non-stop while you two were on your break.’

  ‘Fruitfully?’

  ‘Oh yes, boss. If you’ll let me fill up, I’ll brief you.’

  McClair went to her desk, which was next to that of the DC, and Haddock pulled up a chair alongside. They waited while she poured herself a mug of stewed coffee from the machine in the corner, returned to her station and looked through the notes on her desk.

  ‘BT came good,’ she announced. ‘I’ve been able to confirm that Carrie visited Mr Cedric Black in Millport last Thursday morning. He was David Brass’s family lawyer, but he’s retired now. I’ve been in touch with him and he’s willing to be reinterviewed. Can I do it?’ she asked, tongue in cheek. ‘On Friday, she had two appointments. The second was at a steel stockholder—’

  ‘A what?’ the DS asked.

  ‘Wholesaler, basically,’ Wright explained. ‘That was in Motherwell. The business is called WZB. I’ve called them three times; I got voicemail each time, left a message each time, but so far none returned. Could the place be closed for the holidays?’

  ‘That’s unlikely,’ McClair said. ‘If there is still such a thing as the Fair Fortnight, it’s in the second half of July.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll keep on trying. ‘I’ve got some background on the business. It’s a newish company; been trading successfully for five years. The owner is a company, RLIT Holdings Limited. It’s registered in Scotland, but its only shareholder is RL Investment Trust, and that’s based in Zurich, Switzerland.’