"Of course I did. For much the same reason you are now, because the
boss was pissed off at her. I couldn't help him though. I came up
against blank walls everywhere I went. No one would tell me anything
about her that I could use." He smiled. "The chief braced her once,
mind you, in a meeting. He dropped a hint that he had a file on
her."
Mcllhenney looked amazed. "Proud Jimmy did?"
"Yup. It shut her up for a while too, until she realised that he was
bluffing. In the light of what Lenny told you, she must also have
realised that if he really had had a file on her, she'd have been up to
her ears in it."
"So, mate, what's your advice? Knowing what I know, what should I do
next?"
Mario spun in his chair. "That's a good one. All I can tell you is
what I would do, and that is nothing. I don't think there's any chance
of proving what Lenny told you. Unlike my dear mum, Maley must have
covered her tracks completely, for we've never had a sniff of her being
a real villain, from any of our intelligence sources.
"I think you have to watch and wait. The classic CID approach; watch
everything she does from now on, and wait for her to do something that
you can use to bring her down. You might not have too much time,
though. If she gets this Holyrood seat she's after, we might all find
that she's after us, with a vengeance."
forty-Seven.
What did the barman say?" asked Andy Martin.
"Bar woman," Greatorix replied. "The guy behind the bar today wasn't
on two weeks ago; he was sick and the licensee was away, so his ... the
licensee's .. . wife had to pull the pints as well as dish the grub.
She remembered Michael Skinner, but only because he was pissed."
"What about the man he was with?"
"The only thing she could say for certain was that he wasn't a regular,
but she didn't think she'd ever seen him before. She was harassed that
day, she said, but she struck me as the sort that finds everything too
much trouble. Her description wasn't any better than dAbo's, far as
she could recall, probably because all her attention was on Mr. Skinner
getting himself skunked."
"Did you show her the photograph?"
The head of CID smiled, with grim satisfaction. "The licensee wasn't
too happy with me afterwards, but I did. She wasn't a hundred per
cent, but she pretty well confirmed the identification. She said that
he looked much the same two weeks ago, when his friend huck led him out
of her pub."
"That's something, at least," Martin exclaimed. "In fact, apart from
the identification, it's the first positive thing that's happened in
this investigation. Bob's "Skipper" might have been a false lead, but
we got a result out of it by accident."
"Maybe, but how do we take it forward?"
"I've got someone compiling a list of estate owners on our patch. Maybe
we can pick the people off that who might fit the vague description we
have for Michael Skinner's companion, source their photographs and show
them to dAbo and your landlord. Maybe we'll even find one who answers
to the name of Skipper."
"As Mr. Williamson doesn't, by the way," Greatorix told him. "My man
dAbo, and the local uniforms who know the man, had never heard of that
nickname. He's known up there as Cecil, and that's it. He must have
left Skipper behind in Mother well."
"But Andy, can we justify this?" The head of CID looked his deputy
chief in the eye. "I had a break-in to an office in Montrose last
night; the safe was done and quite a bit of cash was taken. I've also
got a drugs operation under way in Dundee. It's going to take manpower
to pursue this Skinner thing, and for what? He died of natural causes.
Maybe he had his heart attack as a result of falling in the river,
after wandering off while he was drunk. If we do find his pal, and he
did dispose of the body, that's probably what he's going to claim.
"I have to prioritise; that's the way it is here. You're new here, so
maybe you don't understand that yet, not fully at any rate. But if the
chief constable was sitting in on this discussion, I know what he would
say."
Martin sighed. He could have ordered Greatorix to proceed, and, if he
had read a threat to take the matter to the chief, forbidden him to do
so; but the last thing he wanted was an argument with a valued and
experienced colleague ... particularly when he knew the man was in the
right.
"And so do I," he admitted. "Put it on the shelf, Rod, as far as CID
is concerned. I'll brief the uniformed branch to ask around in the
general area of Birnam and see if we can come up with other sightings
of Michael and his mate, but that's as far as I'll take it.
"If Bob wants to crank it up when he gets back from the States, I'll
won't stop him, but until then, let's just wind it down."
Forty-Eight.
For all that he was a politician rather than a policeman, Bob Skinner
had learned to respect Bradford Dekker, the elected Sheriff of Erie
County, the district of which Buffalo was the heart. He had no
illusions that he was an investigator, and had never tried to represent
himself as such to the Scot. He knew that his responsibility to the
people was to maintain public order and safety by putting the right men
and women in place to run an efficient force.
However, their earlier dealings, following the deaths of Sarah's
parents, had never required him to take a view of that efficiency. He
had met Eddie Brady, the chief of Erie detectives, but he had never
before observed his department at work.
As the three men sat round a table in Dekker's office, Skinner looked
at Brady, appraising him openly. He could sense hostility in the man,
something that he had never encountered before. He felt impatience
stir within him.
The sheriff read his mind. "I'd better tell you, Bob," he began, 'that
Eddie is not completely on side with this meeting. He doesn't feel
that it's appropriate for us to be sitting down with the husband of the
only suspect in a big-profile homicide. Normally I'd be uncomfortable
with it myself."
The visitor turned his eyes towards him. The sheriff was in his
mid-forties, as was Brady. But where the detective had a creased,
rumpled look about him, he was immaculate, in a suit made of a sheer
material that undoubtedly looked great on television. "Sure, Brad,"
Skinner acknowledged, steadily. "I hear what you're saying. For my
part, all I can tell you is that if I had Eddie's wife, or your wife
for that matter, on remand in Edinburgh and I was about to charge her
with nicking a pair of knickers from Marks and Spencer, never mind with
an indictable offence, I'd invite you to meet with me as a sheer
professional courtesy.
"But that apart, let's you and I get Eddie sorted on this. You've
ordered him to meet me for the same reason you and the DA have gone to
extraordinary lengths to keep Sarah's identity a secret up to now. You
know that I still have access to her father's political frien
ds, among
whom, as you'd expect, I did some quick research before I came here.
Brad, your term of office, and the DA's, run out next year. He's
standing for re-election but you're looking to take the next step up
the ladder, to the New York State senate. So you do not want any more
political flak than you will encounter in the normal course of events,
and especially you do not want me making trouble for you within your
own party. There is also the fact that Leo Grace got you your start,
and even though he's dead, you owe him."
Bradford Dekker gave him a thin smile. "Everything you say is true,
Bob."
Skinner turned to Brady. "So let's cut the shit, Eddie. I'd like you
to run through the evidence against my wife. Forget the politics;
that's what got me through the door. What I'm after now is
professional courtesy."
The American frowned, then shrugged his shoulders. "Okay," he
conceded, not quite amiably, but with no sign of any continuing grudge.
"You ain't going to like any of it, though." A ring-bound folder lay
on the table in front of him. He pushed it across towards the Scot.
"Those are the scene-of-crime and autopsy photographs."
Skinner picked it up, and opened it, hoping that his distaste did not
show. The first shot had been taken, he guessed, with the photographer
on a chair. It looked down on the body from high above. Neidholm had
been wearing a polo shirt when he died; it was yellow in colour apart
from the dark stain across his chest. The foot baller was staring up
at nothing through dull eyes, and his mouth hung open in the manner of
death, a look that no movie could ever mimic. The policeman looked at
the face; if it had any expression left it was pure surprise. As he
studied it, he realised that he felt nothing at all; no pity, but no
antipathy, no anger, either. He could just make out the handle of the
knife against the stain. The blade had been thrust at an upwards
angle, and had sunk entirely into the victim's chest.
"There must have been a lot of force behind the blow," he murmured,
absently.
"The blade was razor-sharp," Brady said. "A woman, any woman, and not
just a strong lady like your wife, could have shoved in it as far as
that."
Skinner flipped over to the next photograph; it showed the same scene
from a different angle, as did the next, and the next, and several
after that, so that the change of location and subject took him by
surprise. At first he wondered what it was, until he realised that he
was looking at a sheet. The photo was an extreme close-up, focused on
a hair; it would appear simply fair to the casual observer, but Bob
knew exactly what colour it was. There were other shots of Neidholm's
bed, some showing more hairs, others from a greater distance away,
recording faint stains.
He turned from page to page rapidly, until he came to the first of the
autopsy shots. They had been put together in sequence, he knew, for
the victim was intact, naked on a slab, with the knife still embedded
in him. In life, Skinner mused, he surely had been a massive man, in
every respect. Without warning, he closed the folder and put it back
on the table. "Autopsy report, please," he snapped.
Brady picked up a slim document and passed it over. Bob took it and
read through it, slowly and carefully. When he was finished he laid it
beside the photographs.
"Okay," he said dryly, 'so he's really dead. Talk me through it."
"There's not much to tell, Bob," Brady replied. "We took a call from
the neighbour, Mr. Polanski, saying that he'd heard screaming from the
Neidholm house and that he'd seen a lady at the back door in a
distressed state."
"Distressed?"
"Hysterical, even. There was a patrol car a block away; it was there
literally in a minute. One officer went to the front door; the other
went round the back and found your wife standing in the kitchen over
the body, with a glass of water in her hand. Officer said she turned
to him and asked, "What kept you?" He took the glass from her and
cuffed her."
"Did she protest her innocence?"
"No, she became violent; she struggled and started to yell."
"What did she yell?"
"To be specific, she yelled, "What are you doing, you asshole?" That's
what the officer said."
"Hah," Skinner barked. "Doesn't that sound to you like a protestation
of innocence?"
"It sounds to me like abusive language."
"The DA will not challenge my interpretation, Eddie. Will he, Brad?"
The sheriff looked at him cautiously, but eventually shook his head. "I
don't think so for a minute, Bob. Carry on, Eddie."
"Yes sir. The patrol officers called for detectives. Fortunately, the
first man on the scene, Sergeant Dick Madigan, is a capable and
experienced guy. He knew your wife, and the victim, from high school.
He called the sheriff directly and told him what had happened."
"And I told him to take Sarah straight away to the DA's office and hold
her there," said Dekker. "She was off the scene long before the first
media got there."
"Is Madigan a lieutenant yet?" Skinner asked, with the faintest of
smiles.
"No, but he will be soon. Eddie."
Brady nodded. "After that, we put a forensic team in and gave the
place a total going over. Here I get embarrassed," he said, 'because I
gotta be blunt, Bob. Your wife was all over that house. We printed
the knife while it was still in the body. The victim's prints were on
it, because it was his, one of a set of kitchen knives. Absolutely the
only other traces on the handle were your wife's. Some were mixed in
with Neidholm's but we were able to separate enough. She had a full
grip of the knife ..." he made a motion with his hand '.. . in
exactly the same way as you'd hold it to stab someone like the victim
was stabbed."
"Has she given you an explanation for that?"
"She's made no statement yet, other than to declare her innocence. John
Vranic reserved her position."
"Quite right. Go on."
"If you insist. Like I said we went over the whole place. We found
forensic evidence of her presence in the house in several locations.
There were fingerprints in the living room, the den, the main bathroom
and the en-suite bathroom attached to the victim's bedroom. We found
hair from her head on a chair in the drawing room, in a brush on
Neidholm's dressing table and on the back of a pillow. We found her
pubic hairs in the shower trap and in the victim's bed. We matched
these against samples that she provided voluntarily. We also found
..." Brady stopped. "You want more?"
Skinner glared at him. "Go on," he hissed.
"We found stains on the bed-sheet; body fluids. Analysis so far shows
two blood types; the victims and your wife's. We don't have full DNA
test results yet, but.. ."
"But I know what they'll show," the Scot conceded, with a grimace.
"Okay, Eddie. You've proved that my wife had sex with Ron Neidholm.
You'
ve proved that she found his body." He paused, and rapped his
knuckles on the table. "But where have you proved that she killed him?
Was his blood on her?"
"We found traces on her shoes."
"From the kitchen floor; that means nothing. How about her clothes?
Her shirt, slacks, whatever she was wearing? Were there blood splashes
on them?"
"No, but the pathologist said that death was almost instantaneous.
There didn't have to be any."
"Come on, man! We're talking about a massive knife wound that ripped
straight up under the sternum and into the heart. Of course there were
blood splashes. Have you ever seen a fatal stabbing where there
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