Skinner's Rules

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘Those boys worked together, right. Well they didn’t live the same way. Shun Lee stayed in a pit in Garnethill. John Ho was nicked in a nice wee flat in the Merchant City. The tips must have been good for him to afford that.

  ‘Another thing. Shun Lee drove a clapped-out Mini van. John Ho drove one of those big Nissan shaggin’ wagons. If Shun Lee was into drug money he must have been sending all of the profits home to feed his starving brothers and sisters.’

  ‘Any chance of that?’ Skinner asked.

  ‘Not much. He was born in Drumchapel, and there’s no’ too many signs up there of a rich benefactor sending pound notes home to the poor folk!’

  Skinner laughed. ‘So your informant’s tale, that Shun Lee was belted because he and Ho stole some candy from the big boys, is thrown into doubt because Ho could have been one of the big boys himself, and had the stuff on him as a matter of business.’

  ‘That’s the idea.’

  ‘Has Ho said anything?’

  ‘Not a dicky bird, and he won’t. It’s quite a cushy life being banged up in solitary in Peterhead, compared with the rest of the place. Especially when you’re Chinese. There’s some nasty racist people up there, and one or two who might just take a fancy to a nice wee yellow boy.

  ‘What it comes down to is this. If the Haggerty notion is right, and Shun Lee wasn’t into Ho’s smack, then he was done for some other reason. But the Triads could still be the bookies’ favourites, because there were imilarities between Shun Lee’s murder and the few Triad hits that are on record. Several people involved, and several weapons used.’

  ‘You’ve no fingerprints, no footprints? No forensic leads?’

  ‘Next to nothing. We’ve got a machete that was left stuck in the guy’s collarbone. Other wounds include two different-shaped axe cuts, and knife punctures. Oh ay, and they cut his balls off.’

  Skinner felt his scrotum tighten at the thought. ‘Were they left at the scene?’

  ‘No, they’ll be in someone’s trophy case somewhere. That happens in Triad hits, by the way. So what about it, Mr Skinner? Does that help?’

  ‘It’s possible. I’ve got to think this one through. Did you hear about that advocate going under the train in Queen Street?’

  ‘The suicide? Aye.’

  ‘She defended Shun Lee in his murder trial. Ho’s advocate, Mortimer he was the first one killed through here.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’

  ‘Look, Willie, not a word about this for now. I’ll pursue my lead through here, and obviously if I get anything that has any bearing on your enquiries, I’ll be in touch. Sit tight till you hear from me.’

  24

  ‘No, Brian, we will not scale down the Royal Mile patrols, even though the Queen has gone. It’s what, only ten days since the last murders, it’s Friday night, and we don’t have an arrest yet.’ Mackie could see that his boss was adamant, and dropped the subject.

  ‘But I am having a couple of nights off. Your arm’s fine now. You can take charge on the streets.’

  ‘With respect, sir, I’m only a detective sergeant, and this is a big operation.’

  Skinner smiled. He picked up a sealed white envelope from his desk and handed it to Mackie.

  ‘With respect, Brian, as of this moment you are promoted to Detective Inspector. That letter confirms it. Now I’m off to think about tackling Toshio Yobatu.’

  It was 7.30 p.m. When he arrived at Stockbridge, Sarah was waiting for him, dressed casually, as usual. She was barefoot; a big, bright, loosely buttoned shirt hung down to her knees. She opened the door, grabbed him by the lapels, pulled him inside, and kissed him. ‘Here,’ said Skinner, gasping, ‘does everyone who rings your doorbell get this treatment?’

  ‘Only policemen and insurance salesmen.’

  ‘Milkmen too low-caste for you, are they?’ They kissed again, longer this time. Her body moulded with his; he felt himself stir as she rubbed her belly against him. ‘Hey!’ he murmured in weak protest. ‘I told Andy to get there for about 8.30.’

  ‘Alex’ll be home by now. She’ll look after him if we’re late.’

  Sarah looked at him, her hazel eyes filled with what he recognised by now as her bedroom look.

  ‘You’ve had a hard week, Chief Superintendent. I can feel the tension in you. And that’s not good for a man of your years. Lucky for you that Doctor Sarah is on hand with her amazing device for the relief of stress.’ She stepped back from him and wriggled her shoulders. The loosely-buttoned shirt slipped from her shoulders, and floated gently down to settle at her feet.

  25

  ‘So this is what they mean by being under the doctor!’ Skinner murmured softly in Sarah’s ear. She lay on him, stretching down his lean body, her legs wrapped around his. As she moved against him she was still smiling, but the look in her eyes had changed from anticipation to satisfaction.

  ‘You know,’ she whispered, ‘there is absolutely no medical justification for the notion that men are sexually over the hill once they leave forty behind. And you are living proof of the opposite.’

  ‘This isn’t something that hard-bitten detectives are supposed to say.’ She bit his shoulder, gently. ‘ - Ouch! - but I love you, Doctor!’

  ‘That’s as well, my man, because I couldn’t live any more without your taste in music.’

  On Sarah’s CD player, Joe Cocker, set on repeat programme, sang ‘We are the One’, for the eighth, or it could have been the eleventh, time. The choice had been Bob’s from a disc he had bought for her. One of the things that Sarah had discovered about her policeman lover was his remarkable talent for creating a mood.

  Later, just after 9.00 p.m., as they drove down to Gullane, Bob slipped a cassette of Mendelssohn’s Scottish Symphony into the tapedeck. ‘Just to remind you where you are,’ he said.

  They drove mostly in silence; Sarah was almost asleep by the time they reached their destination, lulled by the richness of the music.

  They were smiling and completely relaxed when they arrived at the cottage.

  ‘And where the hell have you been?’ said Alex, rising to her feet as the living room door opened. Then she looked at the pair, Bob’s arm round Sarah’s shoulder. ‘On second thoughts, don’t answer that. There are certain things a father should not discuss with his daughter.’

  Andy Martin sat stiffly on, rather than in, a big recliner armchair, managing somehow to make it look uncomfortable.

  ‘Sorry we’re late, Andy,’ Bob volunteered, still smiling. ‘Traffic was murder tonight!

  ‘Let’s go. The chef will be getting anxious.’

  Alex drove Bob’s car on the ten-mile journey from Gullane to Haddington. They had reserved a table in a riverside restaurant. The proprietor wore a relieved smile as they entered.

  ‘Sorry, Jim,’ said Bob. ‘This lot kept me back!’

  The meal was superb. King scallop chowder was followed by three fillet steaks, with Alex opting for baked sea-trout. As Bob finished off the second bottle of Cousino Macul, Sarah was happy to note that the unwinding process was almost complete.

  They talked of music and movies, or rugby and royalty, the light, amusing conversation of a close group on an evening out.

  Just before midnight, Alex, who had restricted herself to mineral water, pulled the Granada to a halt outside the friendly, family-owned hotel in Gullane which Bob had adopted years before as his local pub. It was one of his special places, and one in which Sarah felt completely at ease.

  They settled into a table in the broad bay window.

  At the restaurant, Andy had insisted on paying for the meal. ‘This is my celebration,’ he had declared. In the bar, Bob countered, astonishing Mac, the laid-back barman, by ordering champagne.

  ‘Christ, Bob, is it your birthday or something?’

  ‘No, you bugger, at the prices you charge, it’s yours!’

  An hour later, with the car secured in the hotel park, the foursome walked home under a clear crisp winter sky. In the cottage, as Alex made
up the bed in the guest room, Bob poured three glasses of Cockburn’s Special Reserve port. As Andy accepted his nightcap, he looked hard at his host.

  ‘Are you going to tell me, or not?’

  Skinner smiled expansively. ‘Tell you what?’

  ‘You think you might have cracked it, don’t you? You think you’ve nailed our man.’

  The smile grew even wider.

  ‘Well, since you’ve been vetted, I will tell you.

  ‘Even as we sit here sipping this fine port, two of our colleagues are out in the cold watching a certain house on the outskirts of Edinburgh, the occupant of which has been under constant observation for the last few days.

  ‘And once the Sheriff gives me the necessary warrant, as he will tomorrow - sorry, this morning - you and I, you for old times’ sake, will pay a call on the gentleman. There we will interview him in connection with the four Royal Mile murders, the murder of Rachel Jameson... ’

  ‘But that was a suicide, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Don’t you bloody believe it... and the murder in Glasgow of a certain Shun Lee.’

  ‘Who the hell is Shun Lee?’

  ‘Before he was axed, stabbed and castrated, he was a Chinese waiter, and a client of Miss Rachel Jameson.’

  The revelation hung in the air for almost a minute. But even through the Cousino Macul, the champagne and the port, Martin’s mind was working. His face lit up in comprehension. ‘Not a client with a grudge. A victim.’

  He looked sidelong at Skinner, with a quizzical smile.

  ‘The guy we’re going to visit. He wouldn’t be Japanese, would he?’

  26

  Skinner had decided to take Yobatu by surprise. There would be no preliminary visit, but a full scale raid and interrogation.

  Sarah awoke at 10.00 a.m. to find herself alone in Bob’s king-size pine bed. There was a note on the bedside table. Robert, she thought, your handwriting is bad enough for you to have made it big in medicine.

  The message was brief but multi-purpose: ‘Morning, love. Tell Andy for me I’ve gone to see the man about a warrant for our visit tomorrow. I’ll be back for one o’clock. I’ve booked a starting time on No. 2. We tee off at 1:36. Tell Alex she’s partnering Andy. Luv, B.’

  ‘That’s great,’ Sarah muttered, but with a smile on her lips. ‘I’ve got either a migraine or a hangover, and he wants to play golf.’

  Alex’s head appeared round the bedroom door. Her big eyes were clear, and her hair was as tousled as ever. ‘Hi, Sarah. You awake? I’m doing a fry-up.’

  Sarah’s head was clear and painless by the time Bob returned. The healing process had been helped by a brisk walk along Gullane beach, a great mile-long stretch of golden sand. The weather continued cold, crisp and bright, with a light breeze blowing from the north-west.

  They drove off from the first tee of Gullane Golf club’s number two course at 1.36 p.m. precisely, Bob and Andy hitting drives across a wind which was refreshing and just beginning to swing round from the north.

  By the time that they holed out on the exposed twelfth green, the most distant part of any of the three fine links courses laid out on Gullane Hill, the blue sky had gone. The wind had risen and the clouds looked to be heavy with snow. As Alex sank the winning putt on the sloping eighteenth green, the first flakes were beginning to fall.

  Later, Bob and Andy, each of whom had been forced by circumstances to become expert in the kitchen, prepared dinner. Alex offered to help but was banished by a wave of her father’s hand.

  ‘Just don’t get too close to him, Andy,’ she said as she left. ‘Pops isn’t exactly the handiest man around the house.’ She pointed to a crockery shelf which hung at an odd angle on the wall. ‘He’s been promising to fix that for years. Don’t stand underneath it. The lot could come down on you!’

  The meal, when it came, was dominated by seafood. Langoustine bisque, cooked and frozen two months earlier, was followed by four thick salmon steaks baked with prawns and served with courgettes, baby corn and a tossed salad of iceberg lettuce, peppers, tomatoes and olives.

  Instead of dessert, Bob produced a wheel of Stilton, and a bowl of black grapes on ice. He programmed the Amadeus recording of Haydn’s ‘Emperor’ quartet on his CD player, and as the glorious strings swelled from the Cyrus speakers, he smiled around the table.

  ‘You know,’ he said, squeezing Sarah’s hand, ‘this is turning out to be the best weekend I’ve had for a long, long, time. And if tomorrow goes the way I think it might, well it could, just about, top the lot.’

  27

  Sarah, Skinner and Martin left Gullane just after 10.00 a.m. next morning, Andy in his own car, each driving carefully through the newly fallen snow. The two policemen met up at Fettes Avenue, after Bob had dropped Sarah at her surgery, where she had left a pile of paperwork.

  A twelve-strong team was assembled in the briefing room, awaiting instructions. Skinner strode to a table at the far end of the room. Martin took a seat in the corner nearest the door. The Chief Superintendent looked refreshed and very formidable.

  He looked around the room. ‘Good morning, gentlemen, lady. Today we are off to an unusual place for us, Balerno. Very up-market.

  ‘We are not going up there to knock on a steel door with a big hammer, but we are going on serious business. This is the gentleman we are going to visit. Brian, please.’

  Mackie handed each officer a print of the Yobatu photograph. One or two started as they looked at it.

  ‘That is Mr Toshio Yobatu, a Japanese industrialist resident in this country. A very respectable type indeed, upper-crust in Japanese society. But at this moment, we are investigating six violent deaths, yes people, six, and this gentleman has a very respectable motive in three of them. So we have to talk to him. And because he’s a prime suspect in these serious crimes, the nice Sheriff has furnished me with a warrant to enter and search his premises.

  ‘We are looking for a number of specific items. One, a black balaclava, or similar headgear. Two, a pair of black woollen gloves, almost certainly purchased from Marks & Spencer. Three, a black tunic, possibly one-piece. Four, sharp weapons, including axes, knives and possibly a sword. Five, human remains. It’s most unlikely that we will find these last items, and I won’t describe them. Suffice it to say that one of the male victims had some important bits missing.

  ‘Now, as I have said, this is serious business, and our reasons for calling upon Mr Yobatu are strong. But the evidence is not yet conclusive, and on the basis that Mr Yobatu may well be innocent, we don’t want to embarrass him unnecessarily in front of the neighbours. So we will go in at 1.00 p.m., when most people will be at lunch. Given the weather today, the snow will be thick up there, and so I don’t anticipate there being too much traffic about.

  ‘Those of you in uniform will wear overcoats, and no caps. We will travel in unmarked vehicles. When we arrive at the scene, Chief Inspector Martin, Inspector Mackie and myself will enter the house and show Mr Yobatu our warrant. Inspector Mackie will then come outside and fetch you gentlemen, and you, Miss Rose. You will enter the premises quietly and will conduct the search efficiently and neatly, inconveniencing Mrs Yobatu and her children to the minimum extent possible. DC Rose will remain with the mother and children while Mr Martin and I interview Mr Yobatu.

  ‘The search will be coordinated by Inspector Mackie. You will work in pairs in areas designated by him. Should you find anything that you think may be relevant to our enquiries, you will not shout out but will summon Mr Mackie and point out the object to him. Whatever it is, you will not touch it. He will make an assessment, and I will be summoned if necessary.

  ‘That is the operation. Any questions?’

  A fresh-faced uniformed officer in the second row of seats raised a hand. ‘What if he’s no’ in, sir?’ He smirked as he said it.

  One or two members of the group choked off laughter. Mackie looked at the ceiling.

  Skinner nodded. ‘Thank you, constable. I take it that your present rank rep
resents the height of your ambition in this force. I’ll say this just once more. This is serious business, potentially the most serious any of you have ever been on. I will come down like a ton of soft shit on anyone who treats it in any other way, or who is in the slightest bit disrespectful to any member of the Yobatu family. Now, are there any sensible questions?’

  Detective Constable Maggie Rose raised her hand. ‘Sir, can I ask, whether Mr Yobatu has done anything while under observation to support the possibility of involvement in these crimes?’

  Skinner’s eyebrows rose slightly. He knew Maggie Rose slightly. She had three years’ experience in CID, and her DI had marked her highly in her performance reviews. He made a mental note to consider her for the vacancy caused by Mackie’s promotion.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Rose. The answer is no. Since we put a team on him, Mr Yobatu has done nothing at all out of the ordinary. He goes to work, he goes home, and he doesn’t go out till he leaves for work again. There’s expensive TV dish on his house. He may watch a lot of telly, I believe there’s a Japanese satellite channel these days.’

  Skinner looked around the room again. ‘Right. Time for a coffee or whatever, people. Carriages at 12.15, prompt.’

  28

  Home for Toshio Yobatu was a large secluded villa in a cul-de-sac off the main road which headed out of the city towards Lanark. The two-storey house was faced in light-coloured sandstone. An arched entry porch jutted out between two broad picture windows. Four more, smaller, windows ranged across the width of the second floor, and a big dormer was set in the roof.

  To the left of the house stood a double garage with its up-and-over door raised, revealing a white BMW 535i and a black Nissan Sunny Gti. The snow-covered drive curved past the garage to the front door. Facing the entrance, a flight of three steps led down to a lawn, fringed with shrubs and flower beds, which ran under its unbroken white mantle to a high privet hedge. The snow on the path leading up to the house was undisturbed.