Skinner's Rules bs-1

by Quintin Jardine

  Thornton smiled in greeting. ‘Hello, Bob. Bit early for you, is it no’. Or have you not slept since that football team of yours was stuffed on Saturday!’ Thornton laughed. Football rivalry was another link between them. Roy Thornton was a Heart of Midlothian fanatic, while Skinner retained a boyhood loyalty to Motherwell. Both were Premier Division sides, and on the previous Saturday, Hearts had beaten Motherwell in a close and controversial match in Edinburgh.

  Skinner grunted. ‘Had the ref locked up. He’s up in the Sheriff Court at ten o’clock. Charges are daylight robbery, high treason, buggery and anything else that I can think of between now and then.’

  Thornton rocked back on his heels as he laughed. ‘So what brings you here, big fella. Looking to nobble an Advocate Depute?’

  Skinner dropped the bantering tone. ‘No, Roy, what brings me here is bloody murder, most foul. Know a boy called Mortimer, one of yours?’

  The term ‘boy’ is used widely in Scotland to denote any male person who is above the age of consent, but younger than the speaker.

  Thornton nodded, his smile vanishing. ‘Young Mike? Aye, he’s a good lad. Why, what’s up?’

  ‘About four and a half hours ago, someone separated young Mike from his head — and I mean that — across the road in Advocates’ Close.’

  The colour drained in an instant from Thornton’s face. ‘Sweet suffering Christ!’

  Skinner gave him a few moments to absorb the news. ‘Listen, Roy, say no to this if you have any sense, but if you could make a formal identification now it could save the next of kin a load of grief.’

  ‘Sure, I’ll do that.’

  3

  Ten minutes later, they re-entered the building. As they crossed the Great Hall, Thornton said to Skinner: ‘In the army once, in Ireland, I had to clean up after an explosion, so I’ve seen things like that before. But it’s part of the scene there.

  ‘This is Edinburgh. This is a safe, kind place. What sort of a bastard is there in this city that would do a thing like that. A loony, surely.’

  Skinner looked sideways at him. ‘I hope so, Roy. Because if whoever chopped up your boy Mike is sane, it doesn’t bear thinking about. Tell me what you know about Mortimer.’

  There was little to tell. Mike Mortimer had been thirty-four years old, and had been at the Bar for four years, after five years in the Procurator Fiscal service in Glasgow and Stranraer. He had grown a successful criminal practice quickly, from scratch. He was unmarried, but was widely believed to be sleeping with Rachel Jameson, an advocate a year or two his junior, both in age and in service at the Bar.

  In common with most advocates, his family background was non-legal. His father, Thornton recalled, worked in a factory in Clydebank.

  ‘Nice people, his Mum and Dad. I remember them at Mike’s Calling ceremony. They were so proud of him.’ He shook his head slowly and sadly.

  ‘Look, Bob, you’d better see the Dean.’

  ‘Of course, Roy. But give me a second.’ He turned to Martin. ‘Andy, will you talk to the security guards. The night shift will be away by now. Find out who they are, get their addresses and have someone take statements.’

  Martin nodded and recrossed the Hall.

  Thornton left Skinner for a few moments. On his return, he motioned to the detective to follow him, and led the way through the long Library, past rows of desks under an up-lit, gold-painted ceiling, to a door halfway down on the left.

  David Murray, QC, recently elected as Dean of the Faculty of Advocates following his predecessor’s elevation to high judicial office, was a small, neat man, with a reserved but pleasant manner, and enormously shrewd eyes, set behind round spectacles. He was a member of one of the legal dynasties who once formed the major proportion of the Scots Bar. He was held in the utmost respect throughout the Faculty and beyond, and his election, although contested, had been welcomed universally. He was a man of stature in every respect other than the physical.

  While Murray’s practice was exclusively civil, he had enjoyed a spell in criminal prosecution as an Advocate Depute. During that time Skinner’s evidence in a number of spectacular trials had helped him to maintain an undefeated record as Crown counsel. He greeted the detective warmly.

  ‘Hello, Bob, how are things. Thornton tells me you want to see me. None of my troops been up to mischief, I hope.’

  ‘David, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but one of your people has been murdered. It happened just a few hours ago. He seems to have been on his way home from the Library when he was attacked in Advocates’ Close.’

  Murray stood bolt upright. ‘Good God! Who?’

  ‘A man named Michael Mortimer. Roy Thornton just confirmed our identification.’

  ‘Oh no, surely not.’ Murray ran a small hand through what was left of his hair. ‘You said murder. Is that what it was, strictly speaking, or do you think it was a mugging gone wrong?’

  ‘David, not even you would have accepted a culpable homicide plea on this one, believe me.’ Skinner shuddered at the memory, still vivid in his thoughts. He realised, with a flash of certainty, that it would never leave him completely.

  ‘Listen, I know it’s early, but do you have a spot of something? I feel the need all of a sudden.’

  The Dean’s room was lined with books from floor to ceiling. Murray walked over to a shelf and removed a leather-bound volume with the title Session Cases 1924 printed in gold on the spine. He reached into the darkness of the gap that it had left and produced a bottle of Glenmorangie. He removed a glass bearing the Faculty crest from a drawer in his octagonal desk, and uncorking the bottle, poured a stiff measure.

  ‘Thanks, David.’ Skinner slumped onto the battered leather couch beneath the tall south-facing window. Outside the day was bleaker than ever.

  ‘Bad one, was it?’ said Murray. ‘I thought Thornton looked drawn when he came in just then.’

  Skinner described the murder scene in detail. Wnen he had finished he looked up. Without a word, the Dean, now ashen-faced, produced a second glass and poured a malt for himself. His hand shook as he did so.

  Skinner watched him drain the glass. ‘David, can you think of anyone with a professional grudge against this man? Had he lost a case? Could this be a disgruntled ex-client putting out a contract from Peterhead?’

  Murray thought for a moment. ‘I can’t see that. The fact is that Mortimer was very good. He’s still a junior, but he’s led for the defence in one or two quite big cases, and given the Crown a good stuffing in the process. I can think of a couple of Glasgow villains who would be doing serious time right now, but for Mike Mortimer. But do you really think that the perpetrator knew him? At 4.00 a.m., down a close, wasn’t this just a random madman?’

  Skinner nodded. ‘In all probability that’s exactly what it was. But one thing bothers me. The animal got away without leaving a single pawprint behind him, yet he tossed away this huge bloody bayonet where we’d be sure to find it. Still, you’re right. Chances are it’s a nutter. I only hope that he doesn’t get the taste for it!’

  ‘Indeed, Bob, indeed!’

  The big detective stood up, towering over Murray. He was six years younger than the Dean, but at that moment he felt much older.

  ‘Look, David, can I have your permission to talk to Mortimer’s clerk, and to check on past and current instructions? Just to cover all possibilities.’

  ‘Of course. Carry on whenever you wish. In the meantime, I’d better put a notice up in a public place. All your people across the way will have drawn attention, as will the closure of the Close. Gossip spreads like flame here, so I’d better let the troops know the bad news as soon as possible.’

  The two shook hands, and Skinner left the Library. He walked back across the street, to the mouth of the Close. A group of journalists and photographers had gathered. They crowded round him as he approached, thrusting tiny tape recorders under his nose. A television camera and hand-lamp were trained upon him.

  ‘Any statement yet, Mr Ski
nner?’

  ‘Any ID on the victim, Bob?’

  He held up his hand to silence the clamour. No point in delaying, he thought. He had always been willing to talk to the media, and this had won him their respect and their trust. It had also brought him the highest public profile of any detective in Scotland.

  ‘Okay, gentlemen ... oh, yes, and okay, Joan ...’ he began, spotting the Scottish Television reporter beside her camera crew.

  ‘At around 5.30 this morning, two police officers discovered the body of a man in Advocates’ Close. It was quite obvious that he had met a violent death, and a murder investigation is now under way.

  ‘The victim has been identified, but the name will be withheld until next of kin have been informed. Once that has been done I will make a further statement.’

  Alan McQueen of the Daily Record was first with a question. ‘Have you found a weapon, Bob?’

  ‘We have found something near the scene which could well be the murder weapon. We are talking here about severe wounds caused by a sharp-edged weapon. That’s all I can say for now. Thank you all.’

  He turned away and was about to enter the Close, when McQueen put a hand lightly on his arm. ‘Any more you can tell us off the record, Bob?’

  Skinner stopped and turned back. As he did so all of the tape recorders were switched off and pocketed, the television hand-lamp was extinguished and the camera was lowered from its operator’s shoulder.

  He was silent for a few moments, as if choosing his words. Then he looked at McQueen directly. ‘Without quoting anyone, you can say this: senior police officers are agreed that this is one of the most brutal killings they have ever seen.

  ‘You can say, too, that police are anxious to speak to anyone who may have seen a person in the High Street, Cockburn Street, or Market Street area between say 3.30 a.m. and 4.30 a.m., with what might have been blood on his clothing. I don’t want to alarm the public at this stage, but want this bastard caught and bloody quick, so any help you can give me in putting that word about will be much appreciated.’

  ‘Any hint on the victim?’

  ‘Male, aged thirties, unmarried. We should have broken the news to his parents and his girlfriend within the hour, so check with me at ten-thirty. I’m going to set up an incident room in the old police office across the road.’

  ‘Thanks, Bob.’ ‘Thanks, Mr Skinner.’ The group broke up, the journlists rushing off to file copy and to prepare broadcast reports. Skinner knew that his disclosure of the brutality of the killing had provided an extra headline, but if there was a maniac at large it would do no harm to put the public on guard.

  He pushed aside the tarpaulin sheet which had been raised as a screen over the mouth of the Close and stepped inside. David Pettigrew, the deputy Procurator Fiscal, as Scotland’s public prosecutor is known, awaited his arrival. He was a burly man with a black beard which, even in the poor light, accentuated the greyness of his face. I’ve seen that pallor a few times today, Skinner thought.

  ‘Mornin’, Davie. I can tell by your face that you’ve had a look under that cover.’

  ‘Holy Christ, Bob! Who’d have done that? Jack the Ripper?’

  ‘Don’t. He was never caught.’

  Pettigrew shot him a lugubrious look. ‘I see you’ve found the murder weapon. Any thoughts on who might have used it? Former client connections?’

  ‘That’s the obvious starting point, but David Murray says no. Apparently the lad left a string of happy villains behind him. According to his description of Mortimer’s career the Glasgow Cosa Nostra would help us find whoever did this. And I might have to ask them because, apart from a bayonet which I know even now is not going to give up a single finger print, I do not have a single fucking clue!’

  4

  The news of the murder broke first on the 10.00 a.m. radio news bulletin on Forth RFM, Edinburgh’s commercial music station. By that time, David Murray had posted a black-edged notice at the entrance to the Library, having first sought out Rachel Jameson, and having broken the news personally. By that time, too, CID officers in Clydebank had told Mike Mortimer’s stunned father that his brilliant son was dead.

  As he had promised the press, Skinner set up a command room in the former police station behind St Giles Cathedral, across the street from the murder scene. The building had been converted to a District Court two years earlier, but there was still adequate office space available.

  There, he and Martin stood looking at their two items of evidence. The technicians, with unprecedented speed, had confirmed his guess that the bayonet was absolutely clean of fingerprints. There was no sign of blood or bone fragments, but halfway down the blade its long cutting edge was slightly notched.

  Carefully Skinner picked it up.

  ‘Andy, I want Professor Hutchison, the Big Daddy pathologist, to do the postmortem, and I want a yes or no from him on whether this was the weapon. He’ll want to run a test, so find the biggest, ugliest polis-man in Edinburgh and have him ready to try to go through the equivalent of a human neck with that thing in a single swipe.’

  Martin grinned. ‘I know just the bloke. There’s a beast down at Gayfield that they send up to the station when the Glasgow football crowds arrive for a Hibs game. One look at him and they’re like sheep.’

  Skinner looked at the briefcase. ‘It’s a bugger about this combination. Six digits, three either side. This is a valuable piece of luggage, so I don’t want to damage it. We don’t have any safe-breakers in court today do we?’

  ‘Sorry, we don’t. I’ve checked.’

  ‘Right, let’s try some of the obvious ones. What was Mortimer’s date of birth?’

  Martin checked a folder: ‘4-6-60.’

  ‘Let’s try that.’ Carefully, he set the digits in sequence, then tried the locks. They remained immobile. ‘Let’s reverse it.’ He reset the combinations to 06 and 64, then pulled the square raised levers, simultaneously, away from the centre of the case. The catches clicked open. ‘Gotcha.’

  He opened the case and, carefully, lifted out the contents. Briefs for two criminal cases in the High Court in Glasgow, one an incest trial, the other arson. Witness statements, and notes on each side. A Marks and Spencer sandwich wrapper. A Mars bar, untouched. Two green Pentel pens.

  ‘Not a lot here,’ Martin spoke Skinner’s thoughts.

  ‘No, there isn’t.’ Skinner hesitated. ‘But you know, Andy, there’s just something about this that doesn’t quite square away; something about this situation that raises one wee hair on the back of my neck. It’s niggling away at me, and I’m buggered if I can figure out what it is.’

  Martin knew the signs. The Big Man was a stickler for detail. If anything in a situation was out of line with what he considered to be normal, he would gnaw away at it forever. But nothing here seemed out of the ordinary.

  ‘I’ve got to say, boss, that I can’t see anything odd.’

  ‘No, and if it’s there, you usually do. Maybe I’m still just a bit sick over this one.

  ‘All right, let’s get this enquiry properly under way. I want all the taxi drivers covered. Everyone at the Scotsman who was either going off or beginning a shift at that time. All the office cleaning contractors. Railwaymen. Coppers, even. Talk to them all, and I’ll deal with the overtime bills later. We’ve got the Queen here in two weeks, and I don’t want our nutter still on the loose by then!’

  5

  It is one of the great truths of crime, that in the majority of murders, the victim is known to the killer. But an exhaustive search of Mortimer’s circle of acquaintances, professional and social, produced not a trace of a lead. And without that personal connection, which in many cases is as direct as the husband sat drunk in the kitchen, while his strangled wife grows cold in the bedroom, any murder is enormously difficult to solve ... unless the investigating team has an enormous slice of luck. And luck was in short supply that week in Edinburgh.

  In forty-eight hours every one of Skinner’s targets had been covered. None
of them had produced a lead towards the identity of the ‘Royal Mile Maniac’, as the tabloids had labelled the killer.

  During that period, Skinner directed operations from his command centre in the High Street, interrupted only by a three-hour visit to the High Court to give evidence in a drugs trial.

  Three men had been kept under observation in Leith, and a consignment of heroin had been tracked from a Panamanian freighter to a ground-floor flat in Muirhouse. The police raid had been well-timed and wholly successful. The three men had been caught ‘dirty’ and their distribution ring had been broken up. Skinner had been irked, but not surprised by the ’not guilty’ plea. The Scottish Bench was commendably severe on dealers, and the three knew that they could be going away for fifteen years.

  So it was that Skinner came to be side-tracked from the Michael Mortimer murder enquiry, and cross-examined by Rachel Jameson for the defence. She was a tiny woman, barely more than five feet tall. Her advocate’s horse-hair wig hid most of her blonde hair, which was swept back and tied in a pony tail. Under her black gown she was dressed in the style required by the Supreme Court of lady advocates, a dark straight skirt surmounted by a high-necked white blouse.

  As the Advocate Depute finished his direct examination, she rose, bowed to Lord Auchinleck, the judge, and walked slowly towards Skinner.

  ‘Your information came from an anonymous source, Chief Superintendent?’

  ‘That is correct, Miss Jameson.’

  She looked towards the fifteen men and women who faced the witness box. ‘Might the jury be told his or her name?’

  ‘Miss Jameson, I will not reveal that unless I am instructed so to do by the Bench.’

  She looked towards the judge, who sat impassively in his wig and red robe.

  ‘Convenient, Mr Skinner. Mr or Mrs Nobody tells you about a stash of heroin. You kick the door in, and lo and behold there it is. Mr Skinner do you trust your officers?’

  ‘Implicitly.’

  ‘So what would be your reaction to my clients’ claim that these drugs were, as they say, “planted” by your detectives?’