20 - A Rush of Blood

by Quintin Jardine

  Sixty-one

  By the nature of their profession police officers can be regular prison visitors. During his career Bob Skinner had visited most of the Scottish estate, but HMP Kilmarnock was a new experience for him. It had been in operation for eleven years, since its controversial construction as the country’s first privatised jail, and to the best of his knowledge had been as incident free as any institution of its type could ever be.

  It had been easy to find too; he had headed down the M77/A77 from Glasgow, turned on to the A76 and there he had found it, only a minute or so down the road. The car park access was barred, but he announced himself into a microphone contained in a metal box, and his way was cleared. He found a space in the visitor section, then stood for a moment by the side of his car, surveying the site, and contrasting it with other, older places in which a difficult job had been made worse by the demands of an expanding population and a general recognition of prisoners’ human rights. As he walked towards the entrance he noted that the complex was smaller than he had expected, given that it housed over five hundred men, explaining possibly why it lacked the air of menace that hung over the likes of Barlinnie and Peterhead.

  The gate opened as he reached it, and a security officer stepped out of a doorway just inside. Skinner showed him his warrant card; the man inspected it, nodded and said, ‘Follow me, please,’ without the merest suggestion of a smile. He led him out into a courtyard. The complex was made up of several buildings, most of them accommodation, but his escort took him into the first. He stopped in a reception area. ‘Chief Constable Skinner, Sadie,’ he told the woman seated at its only desk. ‘The director wanted to know when he arrived.’

  ‘Thanks, Willie,’ she said, rising. She smiled at the visitor. ‘I’ll let Mr Elgin know you’re here.’

  Skinner had not been expecting an official greeting, but he nodded acquiescence and watched as Sadie opened a door behind her and leaned inside it. ‘Come this way,’ she told him as she turned back to face him.

  The man who stood waiting for him looked more like a television presenter than a professional custodian of human beings. The first prison governor he had ever met had been a red-faced slab of a man who had worked his way up from hall duty in top security jails, a hard-line veteran who had seemed to take grim pleasure in describing executions that he had witnessed earlier in his career, strengthening in the process Skinner’s own natural aversion to capital punishment. ‘James Elgin,’ he introduced himself, as they shook hands. ‘It’s an honour to meet you, sir.’

  ‘This is well off my patch,’ the chief constable told him. ‘I’m surprised you’ve heard of me.’

  ‘We’re colleagues, in a sense,’ Elgin said. ‘The police are my suppliers, with the prosecutors and courts as the middlemen; I make it a point of knowing who’s who in each camp. You have some very interesting hits on Google, you have a fan page on Facebook and your Wikipedia entry is extensive.’

  ‘You’re kidding me,’ Skinner retorted, taken by surprise. ‘If it wasn’t for Mark, my older son, I wouldn’t know what Wikipedia and Facebook were.’

  Elgin chuckled. ‘This place is on Wiki as well, but its entry is only a stub, and out of date. Yours is carefully maintained. Does your press office do it?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, but if I find that he has been, my press officer will be even happier that he’s just resigned. I confess that I’m uncomfortable with some of the modern media.’

  ‘Maybe, Mr Skinner, but it’s not going to go away. The man you’re here to visit, he’s on Wikipedia too. It’s the home base for all sorts of fascinations.’

  ‘So it seems.’

  The director looked at him, hesitantly. ‘Actually,’ he continued, ‘I’d like to ask you about him. He’s only been here for three months, and the governor in Shotts, where he came from, told me no more than that he was a model prisoner. So far, I have to agree with that; he has been. But I like to know my people as well as I can, and to anticipate things before they happen. The fact that you, of all people, have asked to see him, and at such short notice, that concerns me. Your encyclopaedia entries are cross-referenced to each other; they say that you were his arresting officer. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes. I did Lennie; I charged him with three murders, and he pleaded guilty to them all. There was a fourth killing, out in Spain; he did that too, but there was no evidence to corroborate his confession, so the book’s closed on that one.’

  ‘Your visit . . . can I ask you this . . . does it mean that he’s still criminally active?’

  Skinner laughed. ‘No, absolutely not. He’s got no family, and no friends to speak of from his old world. I’ve visited him a couple of times a year since he went inside.’

  Elgin pursed his lips. ‘My colleague in Shotts didn’t think fit to share that with me either.’

  ‘Nor should he have. Those visits aren’t on any record, and nobody in the prison population ever knew they happened. It’ll be the same with this and future calls I may pay on him, for reasons that you’ll understand. “Lifer talks to chief constable.” If that ever got out into the prison population or, worse, into the tabloids, it would be disastrous. That’s why Rab McGonagall at Shotts always cooperated with me and it’s why I trust you will too. When I come here I’m visiting you, and nobody else, not even your staff should ever see Lennie and me in the same room together.’

  ‘I don’t know if I can,’ Elgin replied. ‘I’m responsible for your personal security.’

  ‘You’re the second person who’s made that mistake in the last couple of days. I go where I want; I can look after myself.’

  ‘But this man is a multiple murderer, and you put him away. Doesn’t that worry you?’

  ‘It’s never bothered either of us before. Big Lennie and I had our head-to-head years ago and we’re both still around. He’s no threat to anyone any more, and least of all to me.’

  ‘Tell me about him, his background, please. There are gaps in my knowledge.’

  ‘OK,’ said Skinner. ‘You know that Lennie Plenderleith is a very clever guy. He’s blossomed in prison. But you may not know that he’s also very wealthy. As a young man, he worked for a criminal, a guy called Tony Manson, who virtually adopted him. Manson was successful, so successful that I never managed to lock him up. When he died, he left his all to Lennie, including a trust fund in Liechtenstein. The big man has no interest in any future criminal activity; indeed his interests lie in avoiding it. You can trust him absolutely, as I do.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘So we understand each other?’

  Elgin nodded. ‘We do. I’ll go and get him.’ Skinner rose, but the director held up a hand. ‘No, stay there,’ he said. ‘You can use my office. It’s the most private room in this place; I have it swept for bugs every month.’ He left by a second door, not the one that led from his outer office.

  The chief constable waited. He glanced round the modest room, noting that the pictures on the walls were cheap, mass production prints. If Elgin had chosen them, he was still in his early Vettriano period. If not, whoever had decorated his office had been cost conscious. As he sat, he felt his phone vibrate in his shirt pocket, then heard the ring tone. He took it out and saw ‘Alex home’ in the window. He flipped it open. ‘Hi, daughter,’ he said.

  ‘Can you speak?’ she asked as she usually did when calling his cell phone.

  ‘Briefly.’

  ‘What happened last night? I’ve been expecting you to call to tell me.’

  ‘I’ve been busy. More happened than I have time to discuss. Andy and I are fine now, but you and I need to talk. Not now, though. You doing anything tonight?’

  ‘Movie with Gina and Genevieve Cockburn. I could come to Gullane tomorrow.’

  ‘We’re having Maggie, her sister and Stephanie for lunch. Come and join us; you and I can grab a minute in private.’

  ‘No, I’ll drop out of the movie; the girls won’t mind, if I say it’s family business.’

  ‘It will be,
for we’ll all eat together, something we don’t do often enough. Head on out whenever you like. Aileen and I probably won’t be back till after five, but Trish and the kids will be pleased to see you. See you then.’ He ended the call, and had just switched off the phone when the door opened.

  The man who came into the room was massive; six feet seven inches tall, according to his file . . . and according to his Wikipedia page, as Skinner discovered later . . . although that could have been an inch or two short of the truth, and with shoulders that seemed as wide as the entrance he had just used. His hair was lustrous, with more grey in it than the chief recalled from their last meeting, and although it was still winter and he was in prison, his skin was ruddy and healthy. He was forty-five years old, but looked half a decade younger.

  ‘Hello, Bob,’ he said as he sat in the second visitor chair. ‘Good to see you. I thought my new digs might be a bit far away for you to visit.’

  ‘Nah. There’s a new road out of Glasgow that wasn’t finished when you went inside. It cuts the journey down. My wife has constituency business in Glasgow today, so this visit fitted in. I dropped her off, and I’ll pick her up on the way back. How are you doing? How does this new place compare with Shotts?’

  ‘It’s warmer in the winter, I’ll tell you that. Plus, the air’s cleaner and it doesn’t smell of piss. That’s the single worst thing about being inside, even now that nobody has to dump their leavings in the morning.’ Lennie Plenderleith smiled. ‘Congratulations, by the way, twice. On the new job, and on getting married. Mind you, after the things you’ve said to me about politicians over the last few years, I can’t get my head round you having married one.’

  ‘Seven,’ said Skinner.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Seven years. That’s how long I’ve been paying private visits to you in the nick. And you know what happens in one more.’

  Lennie nodded. ‘Oh yes. Thanks to that very generous judge who fixed the punishment period of my life sentence at eight years, on the basis of advice that I never saw, I can apply for parole.’

  ‘Are you going to?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Skinner, taken aback.

  ‘Honestly? Because I don’t know that I’ve done enough time. If I get out next year two things could happen. The right-wingers might use me as a great big club to beat the system with. That might have an effect on other guys coming up for release; it might make the parole board more cautious. On the other side, the huggies will depict me as a poster boy for the system, and that won’t be fair either. No other prisoner has my resources; they’d all be held back.’

  ‘Then why don’t you help them?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Tony Manson left you filthy rich, man. You’ve got more money than you know what to do with. Have you ever thought about using some of it to set up a foundation to fund Open University study by long-term prisoners with potential? Len, you’re a fucking poster boy already, for more than just the huggies as you call them; while you’ve been inside you’ve picked up degrees in criminology and psychology and combined the two in a PhD.’

  ‘No,’ Plenderleith admitted. ‘I never have thought about it. But I will. I see one problem right away. Who’s going to assess applications for grants?’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘Not on my own. You can do it with me.’

  ‘I couldn’t, not in my job.’

  ‘Then how about your wife? She was Justice Minister once, wasn’t she?’

  ‘I’ll ask her. As for the parole thing, if you apply, I’ll be asked for a view. I’ll back you, and I’ll even offer you a job.’

  ‘You’re kidding! As what?’

  ‘As a consultant, a profiler. There is a need for people with your qualifications, and let’s face it, your background gives you the edge on anyone else out there. Think about it.’

  Lennie frowned. ‘OK, I will; I promise.’

  ‘While you’re doing that I could probably get you open prison status, if you want.’

  ‘I don’t.’ The response was swift. ‘I’m in jail for murder, Bob. I came to terms with that fact the day I was sentenced, and I’m happy to stay in a closed prison.’

  ‘You don’t have any problems?’

  The huge prisoner chuckled. ‘What can you bench press these days, in kilos?’

  ‘Twice my age, plus VAT.’

  ‘Mmm. That’s about a hundred and fifteen, yes? I can do two hundred, still, and I make sure that there are plenty of people in the gym to see me do it. I’ve followed that practice since I’ve been inside, so I’ve never had any problems. I am courteous to staff, I am civil to my fellow prisoners, but I am aloof. I have no friends, and I have no enemies. I’m sorted, Chief.’ He gazed at his visitor. ‘Now what do you want to ask me?’

  ‘Why should I want to ask you anything?’ Skinner exclaimed.

  ‘I’m a graduate psychologist, Bob. I can read body language. You’re not quite at ease; you’ve come to see me, but you’ve got an ulterior motive and you’re guilty about it.’

  The chief constable grinned. ‘You’re going to tell me next what it is.’ ‘No, I’m going to guess. Something to do with the Lithuanian disease that seems to be gripping your city, from what I’ve been reading in the papers.’

  ‘I am definitely employing you, maybe even before you get out. Yes, you’re on the mark. Remember those massage parlours of Tony Manson’s that you sold?’

  Lennie nodded. ‘To that psychopath Zaliukas, yes?’

  ‘Psychopath?’

  ‘He was trying to suppress it, but in a guy like him, it’s incurable. I’m not one, by the way. I never was. Every person I killed was for a reason, all but one of them out of what I saw as my duty to Tony, and I always felt remorse afterwards. I still do, especially for that stupid wife of mine. She’s the main reason why I’m not sure I’ve served enough time.’

  ‘You can do penance on the outside, Lennie,’ Skinner told him. ‘Now; that deal. Was Zaliukas the sole buyer?’

  ‘As far as I know. His was the only name my lawyer mentioned, and his was the only signature on the papers. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because the Lithuanian disease, as you call it, seems to be related to them. Something’s been happening that shouldn’t have, and there’s been a falling out over it. The way I see it, Zaliukas wasn’t the only one involved in that deal, but we can’t get a sniff of anyone else who might have been. His lawyer said that Tomas listed his wife as the second shareholder, but I believe he lied about that.’

  ‘I don’t think I can help you. I wasn’t long inside then, so all I had to do with it was agreeing to the money and signing the deeds. What about the lawyer who acted for him? I remember his name as a witness to Zaliukas’s signature on the things . . . there were eight of them, so it stuck in my mind. Ken Green; a pushy man. When I was arrested he came to see me in custody, without me asking for him.’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘He told me he had a fair chance of getting me off. I told him he had no chance, because I was guilty as charged. I didn’t like him, so I told him to fuck off and I instructed Frances Birtles instead. I liked her from the off; she impressed me as straight, whereas Green . . . didn’t. If there was money being laundered for somebody, he’d have known about it. Yes, go and talk to him, Bob.’

  Skinner looked at him straight-faced, but a corner of his mouth twitched. ‘He’s under detailed examination even as we speak.’

  ‘There you are then.’

  ‘Unfortunately it’s by Joe Hutchinson, the pathologist, and his helpers. He was found dead in his car last night.’

  Plenderleith whistled. ‘In his garage? Are we talking suicide like Zaliukas?’

  ‘No, we’re talking accidental, like Valdas Gerulaitis and his wife were supposed to be.’

  ‘Only they weren’t?’

  ‘We don’t think so. Naturally, that makes us sceptical about Green’s death.’

  ‘I can see that. So you�
��ve got three accidental deaths, that probably weren’t, and a suicide . . .’

  ‘That undoubtedly was. We’ve also got eight trafficked Estonian prostitutes gone missing, en route to yet another accident for all we know, and a guy who showed up the day after Zaliukas died, at a meeting he had called the night before, with a note from Tomas saying that the business was under new management and he was it. Not the owner, though, a front man.’

  ‘Can you describe him?’

  ‘Heavy built, big chin, forty-ish; my crew are calling him Desperate Dan. We think the same man dumped a ninth Estonian lass in a doctor’s surgery. She’d been drugged and abused by the one stick-on certain homicide that we know we have.’

  ‘The man Jankauskas that I read about?’

  ‘That’s him. Does that description ring any bells?’

  ‘Sorry; there’s a dozen guys in here look something like that. Anything else?’

  ‘The hookers were moved by two women. We don’t have a clue who they are either, but we assume they’re connected to the bloke.’

  ‘They must be,’ said Plenderleith. ‘One thing, though; I reckon those girls are safe enough. Your man seems to have been concerned enough about the other one to make sure she got help. Plus they will know by now that you’ll be putting the pieces together. I’m sure they’ll move the other eight on, get them out of your reach, so you’ll never be able to prove anything, not even that they were here. But kill them? Eight of them? No. These people, from what you’ve said, sound like very smart professional criminals. They might be ruthless but they’re not unreasoning. They’ll have worked out that it’s better the women turn up alive somewhere far away and out of your reach, than dead in Scotland to get you really excited. Yes, they’ll move them out, probably with a few quid in their pockets.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Same way they brought them in, surely. It should be easy. What resources do the police devote to tracking women being trafficked out of Scotland, rather than in?’

  ‘Good thinking,’ the chief constable conceded. ‘Do you have any other insight, Dr Plenderleith? Seriously,’ he added. ‘I’m not taking the piss.’