Skinner's Trail - Quintin Jardine

by Quintin Jardine

  `Christ, that last tart we had in here — she was fuckin' honkin'.'

  Martin laughed out loud. 'Aye, it must be working in a sauna that does it! All that sweat! Still, I wasn't kidding when I asked you to come to Drugs and Vice with me. I said it'd be a challenge.'

  `Fine, but what you didn't say was that the challenge would be in keepin' down your lunch!'

  Martin and Mcllhenney had been interviewing non-stop for six hours in the Torphichen Place office, near Haymarket Station. Since nine a.m. they had seen and questioned a constant stream of managers and staff from Tony Manson's four saunas. The managers had all been picked up early that morning and ordered to provide complete lists of their staff —present and recent past. The responses of the four managers to Martin's questions about Tony Manson were so similar that it was clear the men had been well schooled.

  `Mr Manson? A gent.'

  `Mr Manson? Used to drop by every now and again to check on the takings. No, no, he never handled cash himself.'

  `What d'ye mean, did he use any particular girls? Ah don't run that sort of place.'

  The women had been a different story. Although none would say, it was clear that they regarded Manson's death as liberation from a form of bondage. Most were ready to talk ..

  within reason. But one went way beyond that.

  Martin had recognised Big Joanne at once. When he had first encountered her on a street corner off Leith Walk — he in his uniform, she in hers — she had been more than something of a looker. Ten years on, he had been impressed to note that, even with her thirtieth milestone a year or two behind her, and hauled out of bed early after a hard night's work, she was still holding it together.

  Àh remember you! PC Martin it wis then. My, youse has fairly come up in the world.' Her transplanted Glaswegian tones were a contrast to the clipped Edinburgh accents with which Martin and Mcllhenney were used to dealing.

  `Tony Manson? Good riddance. Every workin' girl in Edinburgh should chip in a pony for the guy that did it. A fuckin' brute, he was. Once a lassie went tae work in one of his places, she wis dogmeat. There were only three ways out: get knocked up, get the clap, or get marked by a punter. Tony, he wid use the places like a harem, any time he felt like gettin' his end away .

  . .

  Away games? Sometimes. Every now and again, he'd pick up a lassie and take her out tae his place. A Tony takeaway, he used tae call it. Ah've been there a couple of times myself ..

  Did he have any specials? If you got out tae Barnton more than once, ah suppose ye might have thought ye were special ... until the next time he came in and took someone else! There was supposed tae be one lassie, though, that he did fancy. She didnae work in the same place as me. She was in that one down near Powderhall. Her name wis Linda somethin' or other.

  Apparently she was out at Tony's place a lot. Eventually she only did turns at the sauna fur Tony's pals. Too good fur the ordinary punters, so they said. Ah did hear that Tony kept her frae somewhere else. She's no there ony mair though. She must have got knocked up, or got the clap, or got cut, 'cos she stopped workin' awfy quick . . .

  `Drugs? Know nothin' about that, Mr Martin. Nothin' .. .

  `How much did he pay us? Where did ye get this guy, Mr Martin? We paid Tony, son. The workin' girls paid him!'

  And that had been that. The sum total of six hours' work. They had checked the staff lists of the Powderhall sauna, but there was no mention of any girl named Linda. They had brought the manager back in, but he had been as tight-lipped as before. 'Linda? Linda who? Linda bloody Ronstadt for all I know. Never had anyone by that name working at my place.'

  Mcllhenney pushed himself off the wall against which he had been leaning. The heat of his body left a sheen on the dirty paint. 'That's us finished wi' the low-life, sir. What do we do next?'

  `Just 'keep on looking for Linda, Neil,' said Martin. 'That's all we've got.'

  Nine

  ‘You didn't expect it to be easy, did you?' sneered Richard Cocozza.

  Alison Higgins' jaw dropped when she saw the folders stacked on the table in the small office.

  `There are thirty-two files in total, Superintendent,' said Andrew John. 'Each separate business has its own account. Take each laundrette, takeaway, pub, sauna, and the curling club, and you have a total of thirty-one accounts. Then there's a central Premier deposit account into which cash surpluses from each are transferred annually. That's kept at around a hundred thousand pounds. Cash surpluses beyond that go to longer-term investments. Any questions?'

  `Who did the banking?'

  `Managers in each business.'

  `How were payments made?'

  `The total payroll was processed by a firm of accountants, and debits were made from each account. Each business rendered its own tax and NI and its VAT. The same accountants handled all that. Very expensive in accounting terms, but it kept each of the businesses free-standing. That's the way Mr Manson wanted it. All other payments were made on his signature. He controlled every penny going out.'

  `Good luck, then. I imagine that you could be here for some time.' John closed the door softly behind him.

  Higgins and her assistant, Inspector David Ogilvie, a young officer with an accountancy degree, pulled chairs up to the table and sat down. Cocozza took his place alongside Higgins, watching her every move.

  They began with the Premier deposit account file. Soon they saw that it offered no help at all.

  As the manager had described, they showed a series of inward transfers from named accounts, and occasional withdrawals by transfer of funds to an Edinburgh stockbroker.

  Òkay, David,' said Higgins, closing the folder. 'Let's get into this lot. You take the laundrettes. I'll take the pubs and the takeaways. Shout if you find anything that looks odd.'

  They selected the files according to the superintendent's allocation, and set to work.

  Two hours later they broke for coffee. Cocozza, who had sat silent through all that time, could contain his mounting impatience no longer. 'Are you going any further with this farce, Superintendent?' he demanded.

  Alison Higgins smiled across the table. 'Just as far as I have to, Mr Cocozza.'

  It was Ogilvie who spotted the only anomaly in the meticulous records. 'Look here, ma'am.'

  Higgins leaned across to follow his pointing finger. The file which was open before him was that of the Powderhall sauna.

  `So far, the payment pattern in these statements is just the same as the rest, Payroll out. Tax and NI out. Supplier bills out. In these sauna accounts, the main suppliers are the Council, for business rates, the Evening News for small ads, one of Manson's own laundrettes, and Scottish Power. They're all paid by direct debit. The odd petty cash cheque, thirty quid or so, and that's it. An established pattern. Then all of a sudden, look at this.' He pointed out an entry on the page, showing a debit of four thousand pounds through a cheque drawn on the account. 'Drawn six days ago, last Wednesday. I wonder who copped for that one.

  Higgins looked at the fat little lawyer. 'Well?' Cocozza said nothing. He sat there, grim-faced, and shook his head. She could not tell whether the gesture was one of refusal or ignorance.

  `Let's find out, then.'

  She left the room and returned just over a minute later, followed by Andrew John. The manager looked at the entry, then switched on a computer terminal which sat at a side table.

  He keyed in several numbers before he found the detail he sought. 'Cheque number 001237, drawn on the Powderhall sauna account. Presented to the Clydesdale Bank in Comiston on Monday last week, and cleared by us two days later. Payee is one L. Plenderleith. There's no other information I can tap into through this.'

  `Can you call the manager of the Clydesdale and get more from him?'

  Ì can try. Let me go back to my office. I can check from there who he is. I suppose there's a chance I might know him personally.'

  Higgins nodded, and the burly banker bustled from the room. As the door closed, the detective looked across
once more at Cocozza. 'Well? L. Plenderleith. Does that name mean anything to you?'

  Again the lawyer shook his head.

  `You sure?'

  `Quite sure.' His voice was quiet, his head still down.

  Ànd you know nothing at all about any exceptional payment that your client might have made?'

  `No.'

  Ì'll have to ask you to make a formal statement to that effect. You may wish to have another lawyer present when you do.'

  Cocozza flashed her a sudden glance with suspicion bordering on alarm showing in his eyes.

  'What do you mean by that?'

  Alison Higgins smiled coolly back. 'Mr Cocozza, this is a murder inquiry, and we are under no illusions about your late client. I am suggesting that you might wish to take objective advice about everything you say to us. If you find that threatening, we have to ask ourselves why.'

  Silence fell across the room, and hung there heavily until Andrew John returned two or three minutes later. He wore a satisfied smile.

  `That was a stroke of luck. The manager wasn't a he but a she, Wendy Black, and she and I sat our bank exams at the same time. She'd have been within her rights to tell me to get stuffed, and to make you go through all the hoops to get what you're after. But the old pals act worked its charm.'

  He sat down and continued. L stands for Linda. Mrs Linda Plenderleith, no kids, lives alone in a flat at 492 Morningside Road. She lives alone because Mr Plenderleith is doing time for something or other. Wendy didn't know anything else about her. She did say that this was the first cheque the woman had ever paid into her account, other than giros. All the previous deposits were cash. She was well in credit, though, even without the four-grand cheque from Manson. No mortgage or rent payments for her flat.'

  Higgins' surprise showed on her face. 'How long has she lived there?'

  `She was already at that address when she opened the account in 1990, and deposited ten thousand pounds cash.'

  The detective whistled softly. 'Wonder where that came from. Did you ask whether there's been any further action since the cheque was cashed?'

  For a second, John's enthusiasm was tempered by an offended look. 'Of course. And there has been. She drew out five hundred cash on Thursday, and asked for four grand in traveller's cheques. She had them picked up by courier on Friday. Banks don't like that, normally, but she made a special arrangement and the courier carried her letter of authority.'

  Higgins' teeth sparkled as she smiled. 'Good work, Mr John! You can join my team any time.'

  She looked round at Ogilvie. 'David, you stay here and finish going through these files. Just in case there are any more Linda Plenderleiths. I'm going back to Torphichen Place to report this. Manson seems to have been keen to help this woman leave the country. Let's see if we can find out why.'

  Ten

  Andy Martin sat bolt upright in his chair.

  Did you say Linda?'

  Skinner, in the process of pouring himself a cup of tea from the pot which the divisional commander's secretary had just brought in, put it down quickly on the conference table and straightened up, his eyes alert and questioning.

  Did you say Plenderleith?'

  Detective Superintendent Higgins was taken aback by the speed and vehemence of her two colleagues' simultaneous reactions. She looked at each in turn, puzzlement wrinkling her eyes.

  `Yes. Linda Plenderleith, 492 Morningside Road. Tony Manson paid her four grand last Wednesday, through the Powderhall sauna account. Why the interest?'

  Once more, Skinner and Martin opened their mouths in tandem, to reply. They paused and looked at each other, smiling. 'Okay, Andy,' said the ACC. 'You first.'

  'A girl called Linda something-or-other seems to have been Tony Manson's personal tart.

  Tony's and his friends, that is. Off limits to anyone else. We were told that she worked out of Powderhall, but the manager there denied it. We were also told that she'd dropped out of sight. So what does she mean to you, boss?'

  Skinner looked at him. The girl? She means nothing to me . but her surname does. D'you remember big Lennie Plenderleith?'

  For a few seconds, Martin searched his mental filing system, then he nodded vigorously.

  'Yes! You put him away, must be about six or seven years ago now, for serious assault. Didn't he work for Manson?'

  Ùh-huh: Skinner nodded in his turn. 'He was head barman in that pub of Manson's in Leith Walk. You know the rough-looking one, the Milton Vaults. The one they call the War Office.

  While big Lennie worked there, it was as peaceful as a Sunday school. The trouble was bartending wasn't all that he did for Manson. He did heavy stuff as well . . . and I don't mean cellar work! Even as a lad, big Lennie was a real gorilla. Tough, tough boy. He was in the Newhaven gang, and that got him into all sorts of trouble. He was never dishonest, or did drugs, and as far as I know he didn't go looking for trouble. But whenever any of the other gangs came on to the Newhaven patch, they had to deal with him; only none of them could.

  Through the gang he built up quite a record of assault convictions in his teens and early twenties; one of them was for using a blade — although he didn't need it. But then he went to work for Tony Manson, and all of a sudden the arrests stopped. There were none for, oh, maybe for ten years.'

  Skinner stopped to reflect, then continued. 'One or two people upset Manson over the years.

  They usually wound up in the Royal — "Don't know what happened, doctor. Ah just felt dizzy and fell down the stairs" — you know the story. We had a fair idea that big Lennie was Manson's "staircase", but none of the accident victims would- talk, so we never nabbed him

  —until finally we got lucky. Dalkeith CID were keeping loose tabs on a suspected housebreaker. What they didn't know —none of us knew — was that the guy had burgled Tony's sister's house a couple of weeks earlier. So anyway, they're watching the guy one night as he's walking home from the pub, as per usual, when big Lennie steps out of a close and breaks his kneecaps, one, two, nice as you like, with a baseball bat. The CID officers saw the whole thing. Plenderleith didn't try to run for it, or resist, or anything else. He just shrugged his shoulders, gave the guy one last whack in the head, then dropped the bat and held out his wrists for the cuffs.

  Ìf he hadn't given the guy that last whack he'd probably have got no more than two or three years. As it was, he fractured the victim's skull and left him brain-damaged, so the Fiscal charged him with attempt to murder. Eventually his counsel did a deal and Lennie pleaded to serious assault, but he still got ten. He wouldn't say a dicky-bird about why he did it or who had paid him, and the judge took a dim view of that.'

  Skinner paused, scratching his chin. 'You know, I always liked big Lennie, in a funny sort of way. When he wasn't smashing kneecaps, he was just a plain, polite, ordinary bloke who seemed to do more thinking than talking. Ran a good bar, collected tons of money for charity, was good to his granny. He just had a talent for violence, like you have a talent for detecting, Andy, and like you, he put it to work. Someone would have done it for Manson. It was probably just as well that it was Lennie than some mindless hooligan. As far as I know, Lennie never broke any bones that he wasn't paid to break. I've never doubted that when he fractured that guy's skull, that was what Manson had told him to do. Let's think, when did he go down — 1988, 1989? No, 1990, that was it. And I remember hearing he'd married a young thing a year or two before that.'

  Alison Higgins cut in. 'Excuse me boss, but Linda Plenderleith's bank account was opened in 1990 . . . with ten grand in cash.

  'Hah! Wonder whose cash it was. Big Lennie's bonus for keeping his mouth shut, or a down-payment to Linda for future services. Who was paying her mortgage?'

  `No one, sir. According to her bank she didn't have one.'

  `Find out, then, who owns the flat. It'll be one of the Plenderleiths, or both of them, or one of Tony Manson's companies. The last of these, I'd guess. I remember another thing about Big Lennie. When he was done, his address was
given as Leith Walk, the flat above the pub.'

  Ìf he got ten in 1990, he should still be inside,' said Martin.

  Àye, in theory, but you know our fine, politically correct Parole Board. That four grand might tell a different story. We should have been told if he was getting out but, again, nobody's perfect. Alison, will you get one of your people on to Scottish Prisons and check on the scheduled release date of one Leonard Plenderleith, last known address Care of Her Majesty, Shotts.

  He turned back to Martin. 'Makes for some interesting possibilities, doesn't it. Big Lennie does a job for Manson, keeps his mouth shut, thinking no doubt that Tony'll look after his wife while he's away. Tony looks after her all right. Puts her on the game, and eventually turns her into a group concubine for himself and his pals. Tell you what, Andy. I don't get out of the office nearly enough these days. Let's you and I take a run up to 492 Morningside Road. There's no way she'll be there, but there's just the odd chance that Mrs Plenderleith might have given the neighbours a clue to where she was headed.'

  Eleven

  ‘Even in the cheek-by-jowl world of the tenement dweller, where other people's supposed secrets make commonplace conversation, Linda Plenderleith was a figure of rumour and mystery to her neighbours.

  À naice enough lassie, but she keeps to herself. None of us know what she does for a living.

  Maind you, I've always thought it's bar work, or hotel reception. She always gets home late, by taxi.' Mrs Angus occupied the ground-floor flat to the right of the mouth of the tiled close, directly below that of Linda Plenderleith. Her distinctive, flattened Morningside tones suggested disappointment over the gap in her knowledge, rather than disapproval of Linda Plenderleith's unsocial working hours.

  Skinner imagined that, through the eyes of Mrs Angus, commuting by taxi was a mark of respectability.

  The neighbour stood in her doorway, wearing the uniform of the Morningside matron, tweed skirt, twin-set and imitation pearls. Her arms were folded across her ample bosom as she eyed the two policemen, weighing in her mind the significance of their visit.

  `When did you last see Mrs Plenderleith?' asked Martin. `Let me think. It must have been last Friday. Yes, last Friday afternoon'