Skinner's Rules bs-1

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘Here you can have my educated guess. When you told him what had happened to those people, the posturing samurai took over. His first reaction was to pretend for a while that he had done as his ancestors would have.

  ‘His collapse? When it dawned on him that someone had done those things for him; that because of his weakness, his revenge had been taken by someone else, then laid at his door along with other bloody deeds. I would guess that his collapse was caused in part by his fear of the consequences for him of these things that he had not done, but also by his shame that he had not done them.’

  Shi-Bachi sat back in his chair. He looked tired.

  Skinner smiled slightly at him. ‘Your Excellency, we have a psychiatrist in Edinburgh named O’Malley. I think he could learn from you.’

  The Ambassador chuckled. ‘I am glad to hear you say that. You see, I too am a psychoanalyst by profession.’

  Suddenly something clicked in Skinner’s mind. ‘Sir, earlier you spoke of Yobatu san in the past tense. Was that unintentional?’

  Shi-Bachi looked grave again. ‘You are a thorough and perceptive man, When Yobatu san went back to Japan, I sent him to my clinic. There, my colleagues worked hard to bring him back into contact with the world. Gradually they began to succeed, although he never spoke. Three days ago, he dressed up in his Western clothes to meet his wife. When she came into his room, she found him hanging by his tie.’

  48

  The meeting with Shi-Bachi lasted for just over forty-five minutes. When Skinner emerged from the Embassy into Piccadilly, the morning was still fine. He strolled back towards the Circus, and turned past the restored Eros into Regent Street. As he walked a wave of depression settled on him. The Ambassador had removed any last thought that Yobatu might after all be guilty.

  He was back to square one, starting an investigation into a possible murder conspiracy on the basis of evidence which, to others, might have seemed shaky. What if Mortimer had nicked himself shaving, and a drop of blood had fallen into the open case? Did he own black woollen gloves? Could the strands have come from them? What if Jameson’s case had indeed been stolen by a casual thief? The murders had stopped, the affair was closed. Should he leave it that way?

  ‘The hell I should!’ Skinner exploded aloud, startling a street corner news vendor.

  He arrived back at Fettes Avenue just after 4.00 p.m. Brian Mackie sat in the outer office, casually dressed, working his way through a pile of papers. The second desk, occupied during the week by a secretary, showed signs of use. Skinner jerked a thumb towards it and raised an enquiring eyebrow.

  ‘Maggie Rose, sir.’ Mackie answered the unspoken question. ‘She’s helping me with this lot. Statements from Mortimer’s family and closest friends, and from those who saw him in the Library before he was killed. So far there’s nothing. No one can think of anyone with a grudge against him, or can credit that he might have been involved in anything at all dodgy.’

  ‘Is there a statement by Rachel Jameson there?’

  ‘First one I studied, boss. There’s nothing in it. Not a hint of anything like a lead. And she must have known him better than anyone.’

  Skinner looked hard at Mackie.

  ‘This won’t be easy, Brian. If there’s something there waiting to be found, we’ll find it, but it’ll take balls-aching hard work. Go over everything, and then go over it again. Glamorous job this, is it not?’

  Maggie Rose came into the room, carrying two mugs of coffee. She started in surprise when she saw Skinner. ‘Afternoon sir... and a Happy New Year.’

  ‘Thanks, Sergeant.’ He smiled at her. ‘Same to you.’

  He turned back to Mackie. ‘Andy in?’

  Maggie Rose answered. ‘I think he’s in his office, sir. I saw a light under the door when I was out for these.’

  Skinner walked the few yards along the corridor to the Special Branch suite. Martin was at his desk, making a telephone call. He waved his free hand in a wind-up motion as he saw Skinner enter, and terminated the call after a few seconds.

  ‘Hello, boss. London didn’t take long. What happened?’ In detail, Skinner told him. Martin grimaced at the story of Yobatu’s suicide.

  ‘So he really wasn’t our man.’

  ‘No Andy, not a chance. The poor bastard was trussed up like a Christmas turkey and set out before us. And we, greedy and gullible coppers that we are, we did the carving.

  ‘Right, so what are we doing here?’

  ‘Well, boss, we’ve started on all the available papers - statements that sort of stuff — in the Mortimer job. And the Transport plods are sending us through all their witness statements - such as they are — on Jameson.

  ‘I’ve also spoken to Rachel’s mother again this morning. We’ve had a bit of luck there. It seems that Mortimer and Rachel were planning to get married next summer. In advance of that, they’d bought a new house together. It’s not built yet, but they’d signed up for mortgage, insurance and all that. When they did that, they each made a will naming the other And each of them specified the same guy as executor; Kenny Duff of Curle, Anthony and Jarvis, in Charlotte Square. I’ve spoken to him.’

  ‘Good day’s work. What’d he say?’

  Martin took a sip of coffee from the big white mug before him.

  ‘Well for openers, neither Mike’s nor Rachel’s flat has been put on the market yet. Wrong time of year apparently. The new house wasn’t to be ready until next September or October. So both places are lying there virtually as they were at the times of the murders. The only papers that have been disturbed are those to do with insurance, property and that sort of thing. All their personal and business documents will still be there.

  ‘That’s the good news. Now here’s something that you’re not going to like. Kenny Duff found definite signs of entry at each flat. There were indications that they had been searched, and one or two small items had been taken.’

  ‘So what did he do?’

  ‘Reported it to Gayfield, and explained the circumstances.’

  Skinner’s face darkened. ‘And what did they do?’

  Martin looked at him. ‘They visited each locus with Mr Duff, dusted the doors for fingerprints, didn’t find any, took notes, and filed them.’

  ‘They had the names?’ Skinner’s voice had a cutting edge. Martin nodded. ‘And they did sweet fuck all?’ Martin nodded again.

  Skinner turned, picked up Martin’s telephone and dialled his own extension number. ‘Brian, I want the names of the CID officers who attended reported break-ins at...’ he looked at the note Martin handed to him and read out the addresses,‘ ... on December the ninth, and I want them on my carpet on Monday morning. And tell them to come in their best uniforms.’

  He slammed down the telephone. ‘Let them sweat it out for a couple of days.’

  His anger, as usual, went quickly. ‘What about keys? Will we need warrants?’

  ‘The keys are all safe and sound at Curle, Anthony and Jarvis. Kenny Duff will let us have them tomorrow. And there’s no question of warrants, even as a formality. He’s being very co-operative.’

  ‘That’s good. What did you tell him?’

  ‘A version of the truth. That our enquiries are continuing and that we need to look through personal papers to pursue them.’

  ‘Right. Stand down the people for today. We’ll meet here at nine-thirty tomorrow morning. Now I’m off to make it up with my fiancée, and to explain why her Sunday’s going the same way as her Saturday!’

  49

  The team was assembled in Skinner’s outer office and ready for briefing when he arrived, one minute before 9.30 a.m. Martin, Mackie and Maggie Rose had been joined by two Special Branch detectives, and a young woman in uniform, whom he had not seen before.

  The squad stood to attention until Skinner motioned them to sit. Martin began the introductions. ‘Maggie you know, boss. You may also recall these two, DCs McGuire and Mcllhenney.’

  He introduced the uniformed girl. ‘You probably won’t
have met WPC Aileen Stimson, sir. Aileen is fairly new on the force, but I chose her for two reasons. One, her station inspector gave her as good a report as I’ve ever heard, and two, she has a law degree.’

  Skinner nodded to the girl, then rose to his feet. ‘Thank you, Chief Inspector.

  ‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Those of you who are not already in the know will undoubtedly be wondering what can have led me to assemble a squad like this, with such urgency, and on a Sunday morning. Let me tell you.

  ‘We have reason to believe that there may be a link between the deaths of Michael Mortimer, an advocate, and the first of the Royal Mile victims, and his girlfriend Rachel Jameson, also an advocate, who went under a train in Glasgow, just a few days after Mortimer’s murder. Our friends in the Crown Office insist that she jumped. I don’t believe that. I’m damn sure she was pushed.

  ‘We know that whoever killed Mortimer did the other three Royal Mile jobs. For a while, that led us down a false trail, and eventually to a certain deranged individual, with a strong revenge motive. Some of you know that much already. But recently, we found evidence that Mortimer’s briefcase had been tampered with after his death, and that Jameson’s had been stolen from the scene of her murder. Now, to top that, we have discovered that the flats of both victims have been entered and searched.

  ‘So it looks as if the killer was after something from Mortimer and Jameson. We have to find out what that was. Once we know that, we should know why they were killed. From there it should be a short step to whoever did it.

  ‘Between us, we are going to cover every inch of the personal and professional lives of Michael Mortimer and Rachel Jameson. We will go through their papers looking for anything that is at all odd or out of place-I can’t give you a more detailed brief, but you’re all bright people. You’ll know it when you see it. Chief Inspector Martin will allocate duties.’

  He sat down.

  Martin stood up and faced the team. ‘Thank you, Mr Skinner. On this operation there will be three search locations, and you will divide into three search units.

  ‘DI Mackie and DC Mcllhenney will examine all of the papers and effects in Mortimer’s flat. DS Rose and DC McGuire will search Miss Jameson’s place.’ His eyes swung towards the uniformed girl. ‘You, Miss Stimson, will be based at the Advocates’ Library, going over yet again all of the instructions with which the two victims have been involved over the last eighteen months. I’ve placed you there on your own. We have already been through these papers, and so, frankly, I don’t expect to find anything. But we must go back one more time. This is a discreet operation, and if you’re alone, we can give you the cover of a research fellow. With your legal background, you’ll be able to talk to the advocates without attracting suspicion.’

  He turned to Skinner. ‘I’ve agreed this with Peter Cowan, boss.’ The ACC nodded his approval. ‘Aileen, your reward is that you can have the rest of the day off. But meet me here tomorrow morning at 8.15 sharp, in suitable civilian clothes. That means sober dress; nothing that will raise the blood pressure of any passing judges!

  ‘The rest of us will start now. Brian, Maggie, here are the keys. The addresses are on the labels.’

  He threw keys on rings to Mackie and Rose. Each key ring was weighted by a Dundas & Wilson card, encased in plastic. Each card bore the practice logo and an address.

  ‘While you are picking your way through the paper, the boss and I will be digging into the past of both victims, looking for skeletons in their cupboards.’

  Martin finished and sat down, returning the floor to Skinner.

  ‘One last word, although it’s a long one for you lot. Confidentiality. Outside of this room, no one, apart from Peter Cowan at the Faculty of Advocates, knows the full nature of this enquiry. So if word leaks out, I’ll know where to look. So no discussion, even among yourselves in the pub. Keep it tight.’

  He looked around the circle of faces before him. ‘Any questions?’

  No one spoke or moved.

  ‘Right, let’s go to work.’

  50

  Skinner sank into his swivel chair, swung his feet up on to the desk, picked up the telephone and punched in the 041- number which Martin had written out for him.

  After a short delay, the call was answered by a man, a man with an old, tired voice. ‘Hello, Jimmy Mortimer.’ The tones were gruff, the accent broad Clydebank.

  Skinner introduced himself and explained the purpose of his call.

  Jimmy Mortimer grunted. ‘Hm. Yis still don’t hiv a bliddy clue, hiv yis?’

  ‘We have lines of enquiry to follow, Mr Mortimer, and one requires that we talk to your son’s friends, all the way back to his schooldays. So if you can help me, I’d be grateful.’

  ‘Look, mister, ma son’s new friends wis all lawyers, and he didnae even have much time for them once he took up wi’ yon poor lassie. Round boot here, when he wis a laddie, his best pal was Johnny Smiley. Nice lad. Always aboot the hoose. He’s a teacher noo; works in Port Glesca High, ah think. Oor Michael said he wis livin’ in Langbank. Is that ony guid tae yis?’

  ‘It’ll do for a start, Mr Mortimer. Thank you very much.’

  Skinner clicked the line dead and called up the switchboard operator. ‘ACC Skinner here, Olive. I’d like you to do a bit of detective work for me. I want to speak to a Mr John Smiley, he’s a teacher, and he lives in Langbank, Renfrewshire, but I don’t have an address for him. He is, or rather was, a friend of a Mr Michael Mortimer. See if you can find him for me, please.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the crisp clear voice at the other end of the line. ‘How are you spelling that name?’

  ‘Good question. Try S-M-I-L-E-Y or S-M-I-L-L-I-E. No, wait a minute. It’s the West of Scotland; first try S-M-E-L-L-I-E.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I’m serious. They pronounce it Smiley. Wouldn’t you?’

  The operator laughed. ‘No, sir, I’d change it! I’ll be as quick as I can.’

  Skinner was surprised when Olive rang back three minutes later. ‘I’ve got your man, Mr Skinner. You were right; he’s one of the Smellies.’

  ‘Thanks, Olive. That’s good work. Will you put him through, please.’

  There was a faint click on the line. ‘Mr Smellie? Assistant Chief Constable Bob Skinner, from Edinburgh. I’m told by the father of the late Michael Mortimer that you were a friend of his son.’

  ‘Yes, that’s correct. Since high school.’ The accent was similar to that of Jimmy Mortimer, but the rough corners had been polished smooth, t leave a clear classroom voice. It was deep, and rolled down the telephone line like an advancing fog.

  ‘I’ll be frank with you, Mr Smellie. We have run our enquiries almos to a standstill. We are looking for any sort of a lead, and so we are talking to friends of all the victims in this series of murders, just asking about them, trying to build up a picture of the sort of people they were.’

  ‘Where’ll that get you?’

  ‘I’ll know that when I get there. What can you tell me about Mike?’

  ‘Hah.’ The single sound was laden with sadness and irony. ‘What’s to tell? Mike was a great bloke. The most gifted guy I ever knew. A warm kind man with a generous spirit.’

  ‘What was he like at school?’

  ‘He was a leader, but without being resented in any way for it. Everyone liked him, pupils and staff. He was brilliant academically, but never flaunted it. He was only average at games, but made up for it by trying wice as hard as anyone else. And if anyone had a problem, he’d always help, but never talk about it afterwards.’

  ‘Did he stay that way? How did university affect him?’

  ‘As a friend, not at all. But as an individual, he became more passion ate, more involved with issues. He took part in all the Union debates, although he said he was doing it as part of his preparation for the law.’

  ‘Was he political?’

  ‘Yes and no. He always refused to join the heavy political groups. Spoke in debates as a
n independent. But personally, you’d probably have calle him left-wing. He supported every oppressed group under the sun, Sout frican blacks, South American Indians, North American Indians, Palestinians, Soviet Jews; you name it, if a group was under anyone’s thumb, Mike would speak up for it.’

  ‘Girlfriends?’

  ‘In the four years that we were at Glasgow together, I remember him having two brief things then one steady relationship. That was with a girl called Liz something. It lasted till we all graduated, then she went off to study French in France, and it just sort of died a natural death.

  ‘After that there were one or two who were fairly close. Sleeping together, but no long-term commitment either way. Mike was too keen on the law to allow it to have a rival in his life. Until he went to the Bar and met Rachel.’

  ‘Did you see him much after university?’

  ‘Yes, a lot when he was in Glasgow. Once he moved to Edinburgh not so much. But we were still best mates. It was the sort of friendshi where you don’t need to see each other all the time.’

  ‘Did you ever meet Rachel?’

  ‘Of course. She was at our wedding last summer. Mike was best man Christ, I was going to be best man at his, when they finally got round to setting the date.’ Smellie’s voice faltered at the memory.

  Skinner allowed the man a few seconds to compose himself. ‘Did you know much about Mike’s professional life?’

  ‘A bit. Not the detail. He was meticulous. Never referred to his clients by name, or discussed cases in depth. But he did tell me that he liked criminal work, enjoyed defending a client who he felt had been victimised by the police - sorry, Mr Skinner, but that was the way he put it — an really fighting for him. He had a good record too. He and Rachel defended two Chinese guys who had been charged with rape and murder. Mike thought they were carrying the can for someone else. Between them, they took the prosecution to bits, and got them off.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Skinner, ‘I’ve heard about that case. Not one of the Crown’ s finest hours.