Thursday legends bs-10

by Quintin Jardine

  'You've done all right so far, haven't you?'

  'I'm more than pleased with where I am now, yes.'

  'Where do you want to wind up?'

  'In a Chief Constable's chair.'

  Thomson looked up at him. 'Won't that mean leap-frogging Bob?'

  Martin shook his head. 'No, it doesn't mean that at all… although there is a hell of a lot of leap-frogging in the police. No, there are other forces. I'll have to leave Edinburgh sometime if I want to carry on up the ladder, I know that.'

  He might have said also that he would have to leave to move out of the Deputy Chief Constable's shadow, but that was a thought which he had voiced to only one man, Bob Skinner himself.

  He looked over his shoulder at Rhian, but she had moved away to join another group. Turning back to Spike Thomson, he realised that he had been quizzed gently by a professional interviewer. He had his own skills in that department.

  'How about you?' he asked. 'What was your career path?'

  The little man smiled. 'A lot less conventional than yours. I went to Heriot-Watt University and did a Chemistry degree, then went to work in a path lab. On the way through Uni, I did discos at weekends to make a few extra quid; eventually I realised that I was far more interested in that than in my day job. This was back in the seventies, when commercial radio was in its infancy — the pirates had just come on shore, so to speak — so I sent in a tape to the managing director of Radio Forth, just for fun.

  'To my great surprise, he liked it… no taste, that man. He gave me an audition and hired me on a short contract, to present the weekend breakfast programme. Twenty years or so on, I'm still there.'

  'You've been at Forth all that time?'

  'More or less. About fifteen years ago, I was lured away to the flesh-pots — Glasgow — but it didn't feel right so, after a year, when Forth asked me to come back and be the station's Head of Music, I haggled for about half a minute, then agreed.'

  'Have you never fancied the BBC?' Martin asked.

  Spike Thomson drained the last of his red wine. 'I was approached, a while back, by Radio One. They offered me a bigger salary and the chance to increase my ancillary earnings about ten-fold. But I'd have had no control over anything, I'd have had to start by doing a through-the-night show for six months, and it would have been another short-term contract.

  'Didn't fancy it. I like my local audience, I like the instant feedback we get from our listeners, and I like the feel of what I do. This might sound pompous, but I believe that local radio is socially important. We talk to a lot of people, and we have the ability to change the way they think.'

  'Why don't you work more closely with my Drugs Squad then?'

  'Because as soon as we start to sound like a mouthpiece for the police — or anyone else for that matter — we're dead. We're independent local radio, remember; the word means something. Don't worry, Andy, we get the drugs message across, all of us, but through the attitude of our presenters, not through propaganda.'

  The disc-jockey paused. 'Come in and watch us at work sometime. You can sit in with me in the studio.' He grinned. 'You can bring Rhian if you like, although she's been already.'

  He caught Martin's look. 'Some girl, that. Twenty-one going on forty; you watch yourself there. She can be a real heart-breaker.'

  'You speak from experience?' the detective asked. There was an edge to his tone.

  Spike Thomson held up a hand, as if to keep the big policeman at bay. 'Not guilty, honest, officer,' he protested. 'The truth is that my interest is in her mother. Juliet and I have been seeing each other for a while.'

  He broke off. 'You eaten yet?'

  'No,' Martin replied, hunger biting at once.

  'Come on then, let's get some grub and a refill.'

  They were halfway to the barbecue when the detective's mobile phone sounded in his shirt pocket. He stopped and took it out. 'Yes?'

  'Andy, it's Maggie.'

  'Hi, Mags. How's it going out there?'

  'A town full of brick walls so far. I do have Sarah's postmortem report though: it answers a couple of questions. I'm having a team briefing tomorrow morning, at ten in the mobile. Want to come?'

  'Sure, I'll be there.' He ended the call and put the handphone away. 'Work,' he said to Thomson.

  'Not that thing our newsroom was on about today, was it? Out in my home town.'

  'I'm afraid so.'

  The little man shook his head. 'Poor old Smithy. He was one of us, you know; one of the Thursday Legends. Something come back to haunt him, did it?'

  Martin frowned at the shrewdness of the question. 'Maybe, maybe not. Too early to tell. Come on, there's been enough shop all round. Let's get to the grub.'

  They were almost there when the scream rang out behind them; short, sharp piercing, then dying into a gasp. The detective turned on his heel. Margot, the birthday girl, was standing to the left of the garden with her back to her guests, leaning over the boundary fence and gripping its rail tightly. She was staring down, back along the river towards the Belford Bridge.

  The rest of the gathering seemed to turn in slow motion towards her, but Andy Martin was by her side in three strides. 'What's up, Margot?' he asked urgently.

  The girl said nothing, did not move, as he put a protective arm around her shoulders. She could only gaze at the greenish-tinged water, her mouth hanging open slightly. At last she raised a hand and pointed. 'There,' she whispered. 'What's that thing along there? Is it what I think it is?'

  The detective followed the direction of her outstretched finger, leaning outwards, just as she did. At last he saw it, just under the far parapet of the bridge which carries the road above across Edinburgh's little river. It was a large green, puffy object, swollen by the water, not going with the flow but snagged on something. He might have thought that it was no more than a roll of carpet — but for the thing, the pale white thing, which floated on the surface.

  'Oh no,' he muttered. 'Just what I need to round off a perfect day.'

  He felt a strong hand tug at his elbow and turned to face Rhian. Juliet, Spike and the others had gathered behind her, one or two of them leaning out over the fence. 'Back,' he called out, sharply. 'Everyone get back towards the house, please.

  'There's something in the river and it's given Margot a fright. It's probably nothing — ' He knew as he spoke that his urgency made his lie sound unconvincing. '- but I'm going along to check it out, just in case. Come on now, back, please.'

  Frowning, Juliet Lewis took her younger daughter, who had begun to tremble, by the hand and drew her away from the fence, while Rhian began to usher the rest of the gathering towards the back of the garden as Martin had asked. As she did, he glanced down at his clothes, then eased out of his sandals to stand barefoot on the grass. He stripped off his Hugo Boss shirt and hung it over the top rail then, deciding that his cotton slacks were expendable, vaulted over the fence on to the sloping embankment which ran along the other side.

  The arch of the bridge was about fifty yards away; he made his way crabwise along the grass banking until he reached it, then stepped out into the murky waters. Almost at once he was more than waist deep, wading through ooze and slime, pausing to balance himself as he stepped on the occasional slippery stone. The river was no more than a few yards wide, but under the bridge it was so gloomy that he could not see the object clearly until he was almost upon it.

  Close to, the pale thing had a bluish tinge. It was a hand, on the end of a shirt-sleeved right arm which seemed to have worked its way awkwardly from the dark-coloured rug which had enclosed it. The head was almost clear too; a man's head, face down in the water, sparse hair floating on the surface.

  The detective allowed his eyes a few more seconds to become accustomed to the gloom. Gradually he saw that the rug had been tied with thick twine, top, middle and bottom. It was hooked on the branch of a tree, which had fallen somewhere upstream and become snagged itself on the riverbed.

  Something made him look again at the ha
nd, closely this time. The thumb and little finger were missing; bones showed where they had been snipped or sawed off. He switched his attention to the other end of the rug. Two bare feet protruded: the big and little toes had been severed on each.

  'Fuck,' he swore quietly, feeling his stomach prickling. He decided to touch nothing. The rug was stuck fast to the branch which was itself solidly based in the river: there was no chance of anything floating away. Taking care not to slip, he turned and waded back across the river, scrambling, with some difficulty since his feet were slippy with mud, back up the embankment.

  Rhian was standing by the fence. Everyone else was standing around the barbecue, but no-one was eating.

  'What is it?' she asked.

  'Male, human and very dead,' he answered, grimly. 'What we in the business call a stiff. It had to happen tonight, too, and here. Just great for poor wee Margot's birthday. Do me a favour. Fish my cell-phone from my shirt pocket. It was a bit pricey so I don't want to muck it up.'

  She did as he asked. He switched it on and pressed buttons in sequence to call a short-coded number. 'Aye?' came a gruff voice as his call was answered.

  'Dan, it's Andy Martin; glad I caught you. I'm at home, or rather next door, at a birthday party. We've just had an unwelcome extra guest.'

  'Why's he unwelcome?' asked Detective Superintendent Dan Pringle, commander of CID in Edinburgh's city centre.

  'Because he's fucking dead, and floating face down in the Water of Leith.'

  'Suicide?'

  'Would I be calling you if it was? No, this is definitely not suicide. We'll need photographers, and suited divers to get him out. He's stuck under the Belford Bridge. It's not very deep, but it's mucky down there. Even as I speak I've got half a hundred weight of slime clinging to me.'

  'You'll be lucky if that's all it is,' Pringle chuckled, darkly. 'Okay, I'll get things moving. Should I have Belford Road closed off?'

  'I reckon you should, for a while at least. I'll put an end to the party; it'll get hellish busy down here very soon.'

  'Won't we need statements from everyone?'

  'Only one, I reckon, and she lives here. You get on with it and I'll see you shortly.'

  'Fine, but do me a favour, Andy.'

  'What's that?'

  'Wash the shit off before I get there.'

  10

  Bob Skinner looked at his sons as they played on the grass, on the lawn which overlooked the sea. It had been a hot day and it was still warm inside the house. Normally, young Jazz would have been in bed at a few minutes after nine, but that evening he had been even more full of energy than usual, by no means ready for sleep.

  Bob had given up all thoughts of Saturday golf; instead he had visited Chief Constable Sir James Proud, to brief him on the facts — all the brutal, bloody facts — of Alec Smith's death. Proud Jimmy had been desperate for a role in the aftermath, and had been insistent at first on going to North Berwick to see for himself. However Skinner had persuaded him that Maggie Rose had had enough top-level presence at her headquarters; he had made the point also that if the head of the force were to visit this murder scene when he did not routinely turn up at others, then he might be accused of implying that the killing of an ex-policeman warranted special treatment.

  Instead, the Chief had decided that he would visit Alec Smith's estranged wife, whom he had met once at a formal police event. Content with that, Skinner had run the former Mrs Smith to ground through the Police Pensions Office records and, after making sure that she would be home, had called up a car to drive Sir James to Penicuik, where she and her new lover had settled.

  'Just remember, Jimmy,' he had warned, as the patrol vehicle had been about to leave. 'Keep it a bit formal.'

  'Come on, this is a sympathy visit, Bob. Why should I do that?'

  'Because the woman hasn't been eliminated as a suspect. You'd better ask her when you see her whether she and Alec were on reasonable terms… and just find out quietly where she and her boyfriend were last night.'

  Proud Jimmy had driven off, secretly pleased by the opportunity to be a detective, a job he had never done during his long and distinguished police career. As the car turned and disappeared from his sight, it was Skinner who had been left feeling useless. He would have liked nothing more than to go back to North Berwick and take part in the house-to-house canvass, or to beat Mario McGuire to the punch by beginning the trawl through Smith's Special Branch career, but he knew that he had to take the advice he had given the Chief about interference in the investigation.

  So he had gone home, switching himself off from the murder hunt as best he could by taking Mark and James Andrew to the busy beach, swimming with them in the incoming tide, and towing them along in their yellow inflatable dinghy.

  He had expected to find Sarah at home when they returned but, instead, Alex was in the kitchen, feeding her baby half-sister from a carefully prepared bottle. 'Any word from your step-mother?'

  'Yes, she called from her car. She was on her way to catch Maggie at North Berwick with the p.m. report.'

  Now, in the evening, he waved to the boys from the doorway. 'Time's up, lads.' Jazz looked at him, angrily; for a moment he thought that they were in for a crying match. But Mark spoke quietly in his adoptive brother's ear as he helped him down from the top level of the colourful climbing frame, and the toddler nodded, breaking into a smile as he ran towards his father.

  Different boys in many ways, Bob mused, yet they couldn't be closer. Blood brothers, you might say, without the blood link.

  Sarah was in the nursery, settling Seonaid down for the night, as he ushered the pair towards the shower. She had come home, just after seven, and had gone straight into the bath — her routine after a post-mortem examination — after seeing Alex off to Edinburgh, and her Saturday night date with a couple of girlfriends.

  'Our older daughter seemed pretty bubbly tonight,' she remarked. 'I think seeing Andy again may have had something to do with it. You don't suppose there's a chance…?'

  He shook his head, firmly. 'Not a prayer. It's good that they can be friends, but what happened will always prevent them from being as they were. I know Andy almost as well as I know her; he thought she was perfect, and it nearly broke him when he found out that she wasn't.

  'Twice now, that's happened to him with women. No wonder he's back to playing the safety in numbers game.'

  'Is he?' Sarah asked, surprised.

  Her husband chuckled, quietly, careful not to disturb the baby. 'Is he ever! Christ, this morning, I tried phoning him just after seven, after I heard mention of an incident at North Berwick on the headlines. He wasn't in. But last night he turned up at the crime scene with Karen Neville driving him, and they left together.'

  'That doesn't mean anything.'

  Bob tapped the side of his nose, knowingly. 'Trust me, I'm a detective. Those two are of the same spirit; both determined not to be tied down in case they get hurt again. I tell you, my love, Andy's black book is legendary. I even know someone who's keen to get in it.'

  'Who's that?'

  'Ms Ruth McConnell, no less. Just lately, since her big romance split up, I've caught her giving Andy the odd thoughtful glance.'

  'If that's right, will you warn her off?'

  'Do you think she'd thank me? Do you think it's any of my business?'

  'She is your secretary.'

  'So? Does that give me seigneur rights, or what?'

  'It had better not!' She was smiling, but he changed the subject nonetheless: dangerous ground, still, for them.

  'What about Alec Smith then?' he said. 'You still haven't told me about the autopsy. Christ, autopsy indeed… listen to me, picking up your Americanisms.'

  Sarah stepped out of the nursery, switching on the baby alarm, but leaving the door ajar also. Bob glanced into the bathroom, where Mark and Jazz were both in the shower, covered in foam.

  'It was a difficult one,' she said. 'The man was so badly brutalised. The head injuries didn't kill him thoug
h; they were inflicted post-mortem. No, Mr Smith died of shock; his heart just packed in. I took a very careful look at the video the sicko made of the killing, and I could see the moment when it happened. If you take another look you'll see it too.'

  He winced. 'I promise you this, my darling girl, I will never look at that video again.'

  'By the way, I discovered how he was overpowered. He was-'

  The telephone rang out, interrupting her. Bob stepped quickly into their bedroom and answered, before Seonaid could be disturbed. 'Skinner.'

  'Bob, it's Andy. Sorry to disturb you yet again, but what a bloody day I've had! As if the late call last night about Alec Smith wasn't enough, tonight I'm at a party next door and someone spots a floater in the Water of bloody Leith! I had to go in there and check it; I've only just dried off.'

  'Murder?' the DCC asked. 'Aye I suppose it must be. Not suicide, anyway. You'd have to be trying really hard to drown yourself in that stream.'

  'You could manage it if you were able to tie yourself up in a carpet then hop in. But this one didn't. Someone had some fun with him before he put him in the water. Pringle's on his way with a team and we've closed the road around the area. I've had to empty the downstairs bar of the Hilton Hotel too; it's not far from the scene, and we don't want an audience.'

  'What does it look like?'

  'A gang thing, maybe. Time will tell.'

  'Let Pringle get on with it then. I'll give him a call tomorrow.' Skinner chuckled. 'Buggered up your Saturday night, eh? Still, it'll have kept you out of mischief.' In the silence that followed, he heard a female voice say, 'Andy, are these the jeans you meant?'

  He laughed again, loud enough to make Sarah throw him a warning frown from the bedroom doorway. 'Ah, Jeez. I should have known better.'

  11

  Andy took the tailored Lacoste jeans from Rhian, slid them on, then found a blue crew-necked sweater in a chest of drawers opposite his bed.