Thursday Legends

by Quintin Jardine

  "Big Bob's predicament, probably. How was he looking?"

  "From what I saw at a distance, he was looking very fit. Do you think

  he'll get back? Or do you think Councillor Maley's lot have got him

  this time?"

  "They see the chance," Maggie answered. "What they're lacking are

  brains, resources and courage. He'll get back all right."

  "I'm glad you think so. I don't know about you, but with him gone, I

  find Dan Pringle becoming more and more unbearable as head of CID."

  Then he smiled, as if he was anticipating something pleasant. "Here,

  it strikes me that those characters are lacking something else too."

  "What's that?"

  "Foresight. They can't imagine what's going to happen after he does

  get back."

  Eleven.

  Essentially, mortuaries are the same in every town, every city, every

  First World country. Bob Skinner had been in a few, including,

  recently, one in the USA, where he had identified the bodies of Sarah's

  parents; he knew that if there was a qualitative difference, it sprang

  from the thoughtfulness of the staff, in the way they prepared what the

  viewer was going to see, and in the way they prepared him to see it.

  The mortuary at Perth Royal Infirmary was one of the better ones. There

  was a private viewing room, and the senior attendant took pains to

  explain to Skinner that the body was still subject to post-mortem

  examination, and therefore it had not been possible to prepare it

  cosmetically for inspection.

  "What I see is what I get," the big policeman said, tersely. "Is that

  what you're trying to tell me?"

  The attendant hesitated. "Well.. ." he began.

  Skinner put aside his loathing of the aftermath of death, and smiled,

  making a conscious effort to respond to what he knew was kindly meant.

  "It's all right, I understand. And I appreciate it. It's okay; I'm

  ready. As a matter of fact, now that I think about it, I realise that

  I've been expecting a moment like this for years." Behind him, Andy

  Martin frowned, but said nothing. "So just wheel him in and let me

  have a look."

  "Certainly." The attendant nodded and left the room through big double

  doors, rubber-trimmed to cut down the noise of their crashing together.

  A minute or so later the doors swung open, seemingly of their own

  volition at first, but pushed by the attendant as he backed through

  them, pulling a trolley, with a younger assistant on the other end.

  Until that moment, Bob Skinner had not been aware of the whirring of

  the fan, but he noticed it at the same moment that he smelled what was

  under the white sheet, and he was grateful for it.

  "Will I turn back the sheet now, sir?" the attendant asked.

  "No, I'll do it," Skinner replied. "But I'd appreciate it if you all

  left me alone for a minute or two."

  "Whatever you wish." The man pointed to a button on the wall. "Just

  push that bell when you're finished. You don't need to wait for us."

  "Fine."

  The two staff members left by the double doors, while Martin withdrew

  through the door at the other end of what was in effect a corridor.

  Left alone, Skinner took a deep breath and composed himself, gathering

  together thoughts and memories that he had buried for years. Finally,

  he took a deep breath and drew back the sheet that covered the bulky

  shape on the trolley.

  He had been expecting to see what he did, and he had known who the dead

  man was from the moment Andy had shown him the photograph, yet it still

  made him wince, and give a small gasp. The body had been stripped, and

  washed clean of mud; he pulled the sheet back to the waist and looked

  down at it from the side. The skin was pale and flaccid. The hair on

  its head was still thick, and grey, although it too had been carefully

  washed, and the dampness made it look darker, he guessed, than it had

  been in life. The arms were folded across the belly and he could see,

  on the left wrist, the mark that Martin had mentioned, the one that had

  aroused his suspicions. He leaned down and peered at it closely, then

  smiled, faintly.

  He walked round to the other side of the trolley and looked at the

  broken skin on the side of the head. "Where are you when I need you,

  Doctor Sarah?" he whispered. "What would you be telling me now?" He

  laughed. "Not to touch him for a start, but what would you be looking

  for?"

  He pulled the sheet back completely and examined the body carefully.

  There were several bruises on the arms, legs and chest. He had learned

  enough about pathology from his wife to know what, normally, that would

  mean. He checked for lividity patches, but found none. Finally, he

  took another long look at the dead man's face. It had changed, in the

  many years since last he had seen it, but not beyond recognition, not

  even in death.

  "So long," he whispered, and covered the body once more. Then he

  turned, pushed the button on the wall and walked out of the viewing

  room, to rejoin his friend.

  "Well?" Andy asked.

  "There are no signs of blood settlement," Skinner replied; he kept

  moving, leading the way out of the mortuary wing and into the hospital

  itself. "He wasn't left lying anywhere for any significant time after

  death. That probably means that he died just before he was put in the

  water, or was hit over the head, chucked in and left to drown. You'll

  need to wait for the pathologist to tell you that.

  "Did you look at the other wrist, when you found him?"

  "No."

  Skinner shook his head and made a tut ting sound. "You'd kick a DC for

  missing the obvious, Mr. Martin," he said. "There was no mark on the

  right wrist; the one on the left goes all the way round. So?"

  His friend looked at him, sheepishly. "Wristwatch," he murmured. "The

  man was wearing a watch with a leather strap. Immersion in water made

  the body swell, until eventually, it burst."

  "Exactly. If you go back and have another look in the old lady's

  basement..." he said, then stopped and moved on.

  "As for the rest, there appear to be superficial marks to the face and

  hands, sustained after death, in the water, I'd say, and there's

  significant bruising all over the body. All the damage may have been

  done after death, but it's also possible that someone gave him a good

  going over with some sort of a club: a claw hammer maybe."

  He strode on, briskly, until finally they emerged from the infirmary

  building into the late mid-summer evening, and stopped in the car

  park.

  "That's all very useful, Bob," said Andy. "I'll pass it on to Rod

  Greatorix. If you've got any idea where the hammer was bought that

  would be good too."

  Skinner grinned. "Command rank has changed you, pal; clearly you've

  taken the senior officers' sarcasm course."

  "Maybe so, but I'm still waiting for the thing that no one else can

  tell me. Who is, or who was that back there?"

  "In time," his friend replied. "I'm still digesting it, and I really

  don't want to go into it here. Now if you're going to keep your

  promise and />
  introduce me to your new daughter, we'd better get going or Karen'll

  have put her down to sleep for the night." He opened the door of his

  BMW and nodded towards Martin's car. "Lead on, I'll follow."

  While Perth likes to think of itself as a city, even in Scottish terms

  it is no more than a medium-sized town. They arrived at the Martins'

  house on the hill in a little under ten minutes. Karen looked Skinner

  up and down as he stepped into the hall. The last of the detective

  sergeant's deference had gone from her; now she was every inch the

  deputy chief's wife. "You're supposed to be ill," she exclaimed;

  'unfit for duty. You look like you're in training for the Olympics."

  "I am, in a way," Bob replied, with a grin. "I go for my gold medal

  next week."

  "I hope you make it."

  "I will, don't you worry."

  "Be sure you do. More people than you can imagine are missing you."

  "Not for much longer. Come on, where's this wee lass of yours?"

  She led him into the living room, where Danielle lay in the modern

  equivalent of a carry-cot. She was awake and restless, aware somewhere

  that her last feed of the day was due. "Hey, you little beauty," said

  Skinner, 'may you have your mother's looks and your mother's brains, as

  someone once said." He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a

  small package, which he handed to Karen. "Teething ring and a dummy,"

  he muttered. "Don't fall for that crap about dummies being bad for

  them. They're not, and they're great for parents; essential, we've

  found."

  Then he reached into another pocket and produced an envelope. "That's

  for her too, from us." He passed it to Andy, then dropped into an

  armchair.

  "What is it?" his friend asked.

  "It's a bond, for three grand. It'll mature in eighteen years, when

  Danielle's university age, and there should be enough there by then to

  keep her out of too much debt."

  Bob! "Karen exclaimed.

  "Shush. I've done as much and more for my kids and I'll do it for

  yours; it's all the more appropriate that I do now." He grinned. "Just

  don't have too many, that's all!"

  "Thanks, Bob," Andy said, 'from all of us. But what did you mean by

  appropriate?"

  Skinner sighed. "Sit down and I'll tell you."

  "This sounds serious," Karen murmured, picking up the carry-basket. "So

  while you do, I'm going to feed the baby and put her down for the

  night. Then I'll feed us. Bob, are you staying?"

  "If I'm invited. I've brought some kit."

  "Good." She left the room, carrying her daughter.

  "Well?" asked Andy, sitting in the spare armchair.

  Skinner looked his friend in the eye, holding his gaze steady.

  "Remember, when once I said to you that you were like the brother I

  never had?"

  Martin nodded.

  "Well, that wasn't quite true." He paused, opened his mouth to speak

  again, only to let out another deeper sigh. He sat there staring

  straight ahead for countless seconds. A CD had been playing in the

  background, unnoticed; now Eddi Reader's crystal voice, singing of

  perfection, seemed to fill the room. Finally, he blinked and went on.

  "That man," he said. "That man you met in Miss Bonney's basement

  today: he was my brother too."

  And then something happened: something that at first amazed Andy, then

  filled him with a sudden, scary panic; something that he had never seen

  before, nor ever imagined he would see.

  Bob Skinner, his mighty, impregnable friend, buried his face in his

  hands and began to cry, his chest and shoulders heaving in great,

  wracking, uncontrollable sobs.

  Twelve.

  "You sure about this?" The upstairs room was light and airy; the

  window was open and sunshine poured in. They had made good time on the

  flight back from the lakeside cabin; it was still afternoon in Buffalo,

  New York.

  Sarah lifted the light duvet and looked down at him. "At this moment,

  you are asking me that? It's pretty obvious that you're sure."

  "Ah, but he's got a mind of his own, and no conscience; I have both."

  She moved her hands down and took hold of him, gently. "If we're clear

  that, for now, all I'm doing is renewing an acquaintance with an old

  friend, then yes, I'm certain. And believe me, if you look closely

  enough in the right places, you'll find visible evidence of that too.

  So shut up; don't try and find the way you never had with words, not

  now."

  "Nuh," he grinned, then rolled over, covering her and letting her guide

  him, in a single movement. She cried out as she felt all of his great

  length slide slowly and rock hard into her, then thrust herself upward,

  forcefully, as if she wanted even more. He felt her squeeze him inside

  and almost came, but he hung on as she did so, keeping perfectly still

  against the clenching and unclenching of her buttocks as she drove at

  him, feeling her fingers digging into his back as her frenzy grew.

  Finally, her frantic movement slowed, and she began to relax; she felt

  the moistness, but realised that it was hers. He began his own thrusts

  then, short and slow, taking his time, keeping his weight off her,

  keeping most of himself out of her, concentrating on her pleasure

  point, until she began to come again. When she did, he was ready for

  her; she swung up her strong legs, gripping him as he rode all the way

  back intc her, as they climaxed together, heaving, gasping, crying,

  until at last, they were both spent.

  Afterwards, they lay there, side by side once more while their

  breathing softened, and their hearts slowed. "Wow," she whispered.

  "Did you rob a sperm bank? I thought you were never going to stop."

  "Nah," he chuckled. "I've just been saving it for a special

  occasion."

  "That sure of yourself, uh?"

  "I wouldn't say that, but ever since I saw you at the Walkers' last

  weekend, and after I heard how things were with you and your husband,

  I've just had a feeling that this was going to happen. Don't tell me

  that you haven't."

  She touched his face. "No, I won't. It was no more than a twitch in

  my pants at first, but after our date alone on Monday, I knew it too.

  And today, after we got back from the cabin, I didn't want to, I

  couldn't, wait any longer."

  "For which I am eternally thankful."

  They lay in silence, for a while, until eventually a great hand slid up

  and cupped a heavy breast.

  "I won't ask you whether you'll go back," he said softly. But what if

  he comes for you? Am I going to have to fight him for you, d' you

  reckon?"

  "No way," she answered. "Even if I decided that I wanted to be with

  you for good, I wouldn't let you anywhere near him."

  He grinned. "Of course you wouldn't. I forgot; that was a damn silly

  thing to ask, him with heart trouble and all, not to mention me having

  ten years and more on him, and a great chunk of weight. I promise,

  even if he comes at me, I won't hurt him."

  Sarah propped herself up on an elbow, and looked down at him,

  unsmiling. "You don't get it, do you? F
or a start, Bob doesn't have

  heart trouble, not as you mean it. He has an inherited condition which

  would probably have passed over in time, but which has been treated, as

  a precaution, by the fitting of a pacemaker. Physically, there's

  nothing else wrong with him; as a matter of fact, for his age, he's

  fitter than anyone I've ever seen. All else aside, he's at least as

  fit as you.

  "No, my darling, I won't tell Bob about you, even if I decide that he

  and I are split for good, not for his safety, but for yours."

  "Uhh?" Incredulous, he looked at her, and then he laughed. She put a

  finger to his lips, silencing him.

  "Ron," she said, 'you may be a professional athlete, and you may be as

  big as you are, but my husband could take you apart, piece by piece."

  Hurt pride showed on his face. "You what? You think I can't look

  after myself?"

  "I know you can, on the football field, but this is not a game, and Bob

  does not play. He is trained, and he's trained himself, to fight for

  his life, if necessary. There was a time, a few years ago, when he had

  to, against a real killer, a monster, a man who was far bigger even

  than you. When the cavalry got there, the guy was unconscious; he

  didn't come round until he was in Edinburgh Royal Infirmary. Believe