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

  ‘What the hell has that got to do with a failed shoplifting in Kilmarnock nine years ago?’ Haddock asked aloud. ‘Only one way to find out,’ he said, answering his own question. ‘Find its owner and ask him. Keep trying, Jackie.’ He winked at her. ‘Maybe you can interview him while Noele and I are in Millport.’

  ‘I might be busy somewhere else, sir,’ she countered. ‘Carrie’s first meeting on Friday needs to be followed up too. It was in the morning, in Saughton Prison.’

  The DI frowned. ‘Why?’ he exclaimed.

  ‘I don’t know,’ the DC told him. ‘But I know who she saw. His name is Jeffrey Morgan and he’s doing eight years for corporate fraud. The visit was arranged at short notice, at her request. I’ve arranged another for three o’clock this afternoon.’

  ‘Do you want to do it?’

  ‘No, sir. I want to go to Millport. Black can see us at five; he has a Rotarians conference in Stirling tomorrow that he refuses to cancel.’

  Haddock grinned. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘You’ve earned it. You and Noele can do that; I’ll interview Morgan.’

  Beside him, McClair made a hissing sound. ‘Problem, sir,’ she sighed. ‘I’m a single parent, remember. It’s too late for me to arrange cover for my Harry now.’

  ‘How about her dad?’

  ‘No fucking way, excuse my French.’

  ‘Also, sir,’ Wright volunteered, ‘Noele should probably steer clear of Coats, at least until after he’s been interviewed. He was Carrie’s first appointment on Saturday morning.’

  ‘Was he indeed?’ Haddock said. ‘I suppose that was inevitable, given that we now know of his involvement. You’re right. No contact of any sort, Noele, until we’ve seen him. Jackie, you and I will pay him a visit tomorrow morning. This afternoon, Noele, you can see the prisoner Morgan. It’s an informal interview, a fishing trip, so one officer will be enough.’ He turned back to Wright. ‘Cinderella, you shall go to Millport, with me. We’ll leave sharpish. The route takes us close to Motherwell; it’ll let us call in at WZB on the way, if we can find it.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Now I suggest that we all have an early lunch – that’s assuming you still have room, Sergeant, after those eclairs.’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ the DC said, stopping him with a wave of her hand. ‘But there’s more. After I’d been through Carrie’s diary, I had time on my hands, so I went looking for PC Parker, the officer you said was on the scene of the Marcia Brown shoplifting. The information I was given was that he and Vera Stephens, the person Brown accused of framing her, married and emigrated to Adelaide, where he joined the South Australia Police. I went on to its website, found a number for Human Resources and called it. Given the time difference, I didn’t expect an answer, only voicemail, but by chance someone was working late. I told her what I was after, detail on a Peter Parker who I believed was a serving officer, and a contact number for him. She said she’d look into it and get back to me.’

  Wright smiled. ‘She must have been eager to please – that or bored with what she was doing – for I had an email five minutes before you got here. It said that our information was correct up to a point. Parker did join South Australia Police, seven years ago, same rank, constable. According to his annual reviews, he was an okay officer, conscientious and liked by his supervisors, but not outstanding and not regarded as promotion material. He was getting on fine until, just under a year ago, he resigned. He gave no reason at first, but the HR department didn’t let it go at that. When they pressed him, he told them that he and his wife had split up. She’d met another bloke, a colleague at the clothing store where she worked, and she was pregnant by him. The police service offered to support him through his difficulties, but he declined and said that he intended to return to the UK once the divorce was finalised. The assumption was that he did, although they don’t know for sure. He became an Australian citizen after three years on the force; he could still be there, but we’d need to run checks through the Aussie national social security department to find out for sure.’

  ‘Can we find him if he is here?’ McClair asked. ‘Would there be a record of him returning to the UK?’

  ‘Probably not directly,’ Haddock guessed. ‘Dual nationality is permitted between us and Australia. He could have, probably did, come back in using his British passport.’

  ‘What about his National Insurance number? If that’s active and he’s been making contributions . . .’

  ‘That’s the obvious way. While we’re seeing your ex tomorrow, see if you can track Parker down through the Department for Work and Pensions. For now, lunch, for we’re all going to be busy this afternoon. You go and eat, while I give our mentor a call and bring him up to speed.’

  Forty-Eight

  ‘Do you think we’ve done the right thing, Mario?’ Chief Constable Margaret Rose Steele asked her deputy, the man to whom she had once been married. ‘Should we have integrated the Carrie McDaniels investigation and the inquiry into Marcia Brown’s so-called suicide under a single command, rather than letting them run separately? I’m surprised nobody asked Perry Allsop that question when he did his press briefing announcing the identification of the remains.’

  He peered at her, a double-decker sandwich paused halfway to his mouth. ‘It was your idea,’ he pointed out. ‘Are you telling me you’re having second thoughts? That would make a change,’ he laughed. ‘When you and I were together, you were always fucking right.’

  ‘Someone had to be,’ she shot back, ‘for you were always wrong. No,’ she continued. ‘I’m conceding nothing, just asking for your opinion.’

  ‘I think it’s academic,’ he told her. ‘Effectively they are under a single commander, that being me. With Bob keeping an eye on both of them, that gives an added layer of assurance. By the way, that was a brilliant idea of yours, giving him a mentoring role. It sits comfortably with him and both teams.’

  ‘Have you had any feedback from him?’

  ‘Not much; there’s been nothing to feed so far. He did say he likes Cotter, Lottie Mann’s new DS.’

  ‘That’s good. She’s taken over a high-profile job. Doing that and breaking in a new backup is asking a lot, especially after all those years she spent with Dan Provan. You’re going to call me sexist, but I’m very aware that there are continuing pressures on female senior officers. We still have to prove ourselves.’

  ‘Not in my eyes you don’t.’

  ‘I’m aware of that, Mario, or you wouldn’t be my deputy. But there are still a few male supremacists left, even if they don’t speak out loud these days, people like Greg Jay. Remember him?’ she asked as he finished his sandwich.

  ‘Very well. I was working for him when Bob hijacked me on to his team. Women PCs were for making the tea. That guy used to take pay-offs in kind from prostitutes for turning a blind eye. Everybody knew it but nobody said anything, as his Masonic connections helped him climb the ladder.’

  Rose nodded. ‘That’s right, even in Jimmy Proud’s day.’

  ‘Jimmy was one.’

  She gasped. ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘No. You did his eulogy and yet you didn’t know he was a Mason? That’s another piece of male supremacy. I’m half Italian, half Irish Catholic, and that’s as far away from a funny handshake as you can get in these parts, but even I knew.’

  ‘Next you’re going to tell me that Bob’s one too.’

  He shook his head firmly. ‘No I’m not. His father was, but he didn’t find out until after he was dead. He grew up in a heavily Masonic town, but he was never part of its culture.’

  ‘I was his exec for a while,’ she said, ‘yet you’re telling me stuff I never even suspected. Why wasn’t he?’

  ‘Because Bob Skinner, for all his camaraderie, for all his multi-layered family, for all his charisma and his popularity, grew up as the ultimate loner. I reckon that if you scratch the surface deeply enough, he still is – just like his daughter.’

  Rose smiled. ‘Ask Andy Martin about that.’

  �
�Andy was another, but he had the added complication of being a c—’ He broke off in mid denunciation as his phone sounded. He picked it up from the table and took the call. ‘McGuire.’

  ‘Sir,’ a female voice replied. ‘Chief Superintendent Barbara Scott, divisional commander Ayrshire.’

  ‘I know who you are, Barbara, go on.’

  ‘Something’s just landed on my desk that I thought should come straight to you. A traffic warden in Kilmarnock ticketed a car yesterday morning. When he went past today, it was still there, so he reported it to the police and the station commander ran a number check. The vehicle showed up as belonging to a restaurateur in Stevenson, reported stolen early on Saturday morning; the only problem was, it was supposed to be a Ford Mondeo. This car is a Renault. The station commander went out there himself, effected entry to the vehicle, and found the chassis number. When he checked that with the DVLA, he was told that the registered keeper is a Ms Carrie McDaniels, High Street, Edinburgh. Am I right in thinking . . .’

  ‘Yes, you are, Barbara,’ the DCC told her. ‘Thank you for bringing this straight to me. I want you to put a security cordon round that car at once. Nobody touches it until a forensic team gets there from Gartcosh.’ He ended the call, looking across at the chief constable.

  ‘We’ve got Carrie’s vehicle,’ he told her. ‘The bastards hid it in plain sight. Pray to God, or whoever else you believe in, that they’ve left something traceable behind.’

  Forty-Nine

  ‘Thanks for coming, sir,’ Noele McClair said. ‘I hope you didn’t mind me calling.’

  ‘Not at all; I don’t blame you for wanting a witness to your meeting with this man. They don’t allow phones in there, so you couldn’t record it. It’s okay with Sauce, and I had a gap in my diary, so all’s well.’ Skinner smiled. ‘Apart from one thing: I’m not your line manager, our daughters go to school together, and they’re best friends. It’s Bob, not sir.’

  ‘Noted.’

  ‘So why are we here? Who is this guy Morgan and why is he important? Apart from him sharing my middle name, that is.’

  ‘I don’t know; I don’t know who or what he is, only that Carrie McDaniels found it necessary to visit him here last week.’

  Skinner was familiar with the entrance procedures at Her Majesty’s Prison Edinburgh; he led them to the gate and into the security area, where the duty officer recognised him at once. ‘I take it you’ll be wanting to bypass the security gate, sir,’ he said.

  ‘I have a cardiac pacemaker,’ Skinner explained to his companion. ‘I’m advised not to go through those things. I’m not really sure why.’

  On the other side of the barrier, a woman was waiting for them. ‘Sir Robert,’ she exclaimed, ‘this is a surprise. I was only expecting DS McClair.’

  ‘I’m a late inclusion, Bobbie. Noele, this is AG Forrest; she’s been in here longer than most of the inmates.’

  ‘Our friend Prisoner Skip is a popular man. Two visits in as many weeks. Are they connected?’

  ‘Sadly, yes.’ Her question surprised him. ‘You do realise who last week’s visitor was, don’t you?’

  ‘Her name was Daniels, that’s all I know.’

  ‘You missed a bit; her name was McDaniels.’

  The assistant governor’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh God! The woman who’s gone missing?’

  ‘No longer missing, I’m afraid. There was an announcement at midday: she was murdered.’

  ‘Wow! Does that have anything to do with her visit to Morgan?’

  ‘That’s what we’re here to find out, Ms Forrest,’ McClair said. ‘Can you establish for us whether he’s had any visitors since then or been in contact with anyone outside the prison?’

  ‘His lawyer came to see him yesterday, that I do know. It was to discuss his forthcoming application for parole.’

  ‘We’re thinking of last week,’ Skinner told her.

  ‘No other visitors that I know of, and I’m the responsible AG. As for outside contacts, phone calls are logged, so I should be able to find out. Come through to my office; I’ll check before I take you to see him.’

  Forrest’s office was in an older part of the prison beyond the entrance block, which was a modern addition. They waited, watching her as she made an internal call and made a note on a pad. ‘He called this number on Friday,’ she announced as she hung up, tearing off a page and handing it to McClair. ‘That was an hour after the visit from Ms Daniels . . . sorry, McDaniels.’

  The DS thanked her. ‘That’s good; we can trace it back if we have to. Can we see Morgan now?’

  ‘Of course. Follow me.’

  She led them along a series of narrow corridors, interrupted by gates, each unlocked and locked as they passed through. As they walked, McClair whispered to Skinner, ‘Now that we know about that phone call, I’m getting nervous about this interview. Should we be doing this informally? Shouldn’t he be cautioned?’

  ‘The same thought crossed my mind,’ he admitted, ‘but I’m okay with it for now. We’ve got no reason to suspect Morgan of this or any other crime. We may not even need to mention the phone call. Leave that in my hands; it might work to our advantage.’

  Morgan was waiting for them in a small room, one that Skinner had been in several times before. He knew that prisoners met police there and that they were escorted to those sessions by governor ranks rather than prison officers. It was a piece of basic security that he found pointless; its purpose was to avoid the possibility of a loose-lipped officer putting his charge at risk, but the very fact that an AG was involved sent out a signal to the rest of the hall.

  Nonetheless, he kept that thought to himself as he stepped through the door. Jeffrey ‘Skip’ Morgan did not cut a piratical figure or even close. He was a chubby man, advanced in middle age with a look in his eyes that told the former chief constable everything he needed to know. The man was afraid; he had survived his sentence, emotionally, by the skin of his teeth, and was terrified by the notion that his parole request might not be the automatic success that his lawyer had undoubtedly promised.

  Bob kept silent as Roberta Forrest made the introductions, and then left. He waited as Noele McClair took a seat, but remained standing himself, fixing Morgan with a heavy stare. ‘A woman came to see you last Friday,’ he said coldly. ‘The next day she was murdered. She had barely left you before you made an outside phone call. I’ll give you two seconds to figure out how that looks for you. One, two. Time’s up. Tell us, sunshine, who did you call and why?’

  McClair stared at him, almost open-mouthed. We may not even need to mention the phone call, she thought.

  ‘I called my wife, Eileen.’ It was more of a squeal than an exclamation. ‘I wanted to know what the hell had possessed her when she sent an investigator to talk to me about something that happened nine years ago, something I know nothing about. I’ve got a parole hearing coming up; the last bloody thing I need is to be implicated in a criminal investigation.’

  ‘Criminal?’ Skinner echoed. ‘Did Carrie McDaniels suggest to you that there was criminality involved in what she was doing?’

  ‘Not as such, no, but . . .’ Morgan paused, gaining control of himself. ‘Look, Marcia Brown screamed loud and long that she’d been framed. After she’d topped herself, her twin sister Joanie screamed even louder. She claimed that it was all part of a huge conspiracy to cover up something very dark, and that Marcia’s death was part of it.’

  ‘And was it?’ McClair asked quietly.

  ‘How the hell would I know? I knew nothing about any of it, other than what Joanie told me.’

  ‘Why did she tell you?’

  ‘Because I was the only bugger who would listen to her. She worked for me . . . and that was all, honestly,’ he added. ‘Whatever Eileen might have thought, there was never anything between me and Joanie but a desk.’

  ‘Why did she send Carrie McDaniels to see you?’ Skinner asked.

  ‘She thought I could help her trace Joan.’

 
‘Did you?’

  ‘No,’ Morgan replied. ‘I fed her a line to get rid of her. I told her I had a number I could call to pass on a message; I said I would give Joanie her number, and it would be up to her whether she called. That was bullshit. I never had a number. I haven’t seen Joanie since my company went bust.’

  ‘Let’s go back to this conspiracy that Marcia’s sister spoke of. Did she give you any clue about it?’

  ‘No. Only that it involved a woman called Gloria Stephens, a councillor. Joanie was off her face about that; she insisted that her sister hadn’t killed herself, that she’d had help.’

  ‘Did you believe that?’

  ‘The woman Daniels—’

  ‘McDaniels,’ McClair interposed. ‘Get her name right.’

  ‘That’s the name I was given,’ Morgan snapped. ‘She asked me the same thing. I told her there was nothing I’d rule out, but what I meant was that they were a pair of hysterics. Look, when Joanie came out with that stuff, as she did all the bloody time, I just wanted shot of her; and frankly, with my parole hearing in front of me, I just wanted shot of the McDaniels woman too. That’s why I spun her a line.’

  Fifty

  Detective Sergeant Tarvil ‘Wimpey’ Singh had drawn what he regarded as the shortest of straws. He was in charge of the CCTV trawl across Edinburgh city centre, trying to plot the movements of two wanted men, the pair who had broken into Saltire House in Fountainbridge and stolen the Marcia Brown file from Alex Skinner’s office; who had entered Carrie McDaniels’ Royal Mile flat and taken her laptop and work papers; and who had found their way into Alex Skinner’s duplex, attacking her and wounding Griff Montell.

  Singh understood the reasoning behind the habit of assigning him to office-bound duties. His friend Jack McGurk, no midget himself, had declared in a crowded pub one evening, in mid celebration of the closure of a tricky investigation, ‘Tarv, Wimpey build houses that are smaller than you.’ The nickname had stuck, but his colleagues were careful not to use it in his presence. He was so conspicuously large that he could not be used on any operation where a stake-out might be necessary, and he did not fit comfortably into any car smaller than a seven-seater. Nevertheless, he had spent several years in what had then been known as Special Branch, in the old territorial force, in spite of what he regarded as his physical handicap. He would make the point on occasion, knowing all the while that in reality, most of what Special Branch had done was routine, and involved very little legwork.