Skinner's trail bs-3

by Quintin Jardine

  `Right, Ricky. To complete the formalities, I'm DS Martin, head of the Drugs and Vice team, and this is Inspector Rose. We know what your job is, and what sort of a place you run, so I don't let's have any more theatricals. What can you tell us about a man called Paul Ainscow and one of your ladies, Joanne?'

  Barratt stared downwards, at the endless folds of his ' stomach. `Ainscow? He was some sort of pal of Tony's. He'd been gettin' too keen on a lassie up at Powderhall — one of Tony's favourites, I think — and Tony sent him down here tae see Big Joanne, tae sort of take his mind off her, ken. Big Joanne's good at that. She's heid girl in there.' He glanced, seedily at Martin. 'In every way.'

  `When was this?'

  `A right few months ago now.'

  `How did they get on?'-

  `Like Tony meant them to. I told you, she's good, is Big Joanne.'

  `How often does he come to your place?'

  `He doesnae, any more. That place isnae one of the nicest, One night when he was in, his car was damaged. He kicked up hell's delight. Since then he's phoned up, and the big yin's seen him at her place. She's got a wee flat in King's Landing, round by the Waterfront pub.'

  `That's an unusual thing for a working girl to do, isn't it?' Barratt nodded. 'Aye. But the big beast was quite keen on the boy, too. The rougher they are, the better she likes them and, from what I can gather, Ainscow s a rough type. Pleasant on the surface, but once the doors were closed, a cold hard bastard. Right up her street.'

  `Has he called in for her lately — like this week?'

  The man shook his great head slowly. Naw, No' this week. He'd have been wasting his time, onyway. The big yin phoned in sick on Monday. Havnae seen her since then.'

  Ninety-five

  ‘You've checked out the address?'

  `Yes, sir,' said Maggie Rose. 'It's a one-bedroom flat on the top floor. She's on the board at the door — and you won't believe what her surname is.'

  `Try me,' said Skinner.

  `Virtue.'

  He grinned. 'What's so odd about that? I 'know at least two traffic wardens called Good!'

  The Fettes Avenue building wore the quiet feel of evening. Skinner, Rose and Martin sat in the detective superintendent's office.

  Did you have a look at the place?'

  `Yes, for a while,' said Martin. 'No sign of movement.'

  `Okay, let's pay the lady a call, and see if she's got a house guest. I want it done by the book. Maggie, dig up a Sheriff and get a proper search warrant, in case it's needed. Take someone else with you when you go, a bit of extra muscle in case he is there and doesn't feel like being reasonable. Big McIlhenney’s' wife can always use the overtime pay. Take him.'

  Rose nodded. 'Yes, sir, I'll tell him. Aren't you coming though?'

  Skinner smiled. 'Maggie, I'm a family man again, and I’ve missed too many of my small son's bathtimes lately. I intend to spend my evenings at home from now on, whenever I can.

  Privileges of rank, and all that, as both of you will find out some day.'

  `Does that mean,' asked Martin, with a show of innocence, `that if we nick Ainscow we don't phone to tell you, but wait till you come in tomorrow?'

  `No, son, if that happens, you phone me, but if Sarah answers you'd better disguise your voice!'

  `What do I put down as the purpose of the search warrant?' asked Rose.

  `Investigation of a conspiracy to import controlled substances. It's all we've got that's solid enough. Although, maybe — ' Skinner paused. 'No, forget it. That's enough, lets us nick him. Once we've done that, we'll just have to catch our man and persuade him to talk, to make it stand up in court.'

  `When do we go in?' asked Martin.

  `Normally you'd say dawn, wouldn't you. But this time let's make it late evening. Let them get settled down for the night, then go up and thump the door. Say eleven o'clock. If Ainscow's there, it'll be all the easier if his pants are hanging over the bedroom chair!'

  Ninety-six

  King's Landing was peaceful in the Scottish summer gloaming. The block, one of the first built during the revival of Leith as a living community, was framed against the deepening blue of the northern sky.

  `Thank Christ, there's no entry phone this time,' muttered Martin as they approached the entrance. He pushed the door open and led the way up the twisting stairs. On the top landing there were two doors, facing each other. He glanced at each, and on the one on the left, read the name 'Virtue' on a small brass plate set just above a glass spyhole. Beckoning to Rose and Mcllhenney, he strode towards it. There was a bell push, but Martin ignored it, and thumped the surface with the side of his closed fist.

  `Joanne he called. 'It's the police. Mr Martin. Open up, please.

  He stepped back so that he, and his companions, could be seen clearly through the viewing glass. He listened, and eventually he heard the creak of a floorboard from within the flat. The door swung open slightly, as far as its safety chain would allow. Joanne Virtue peered around its edge. Her blond, hair was tousled, and held back by a band, and she wore no make-up, yet she was still striking. But there was something in her eyes that Martin had not seen before, an expression that was far from her usual cheerful self-confidence — something that he would not expect to see on a woman of her profession, even when receiving a visit from the police. Martin looked at her and saw fear in her face.

  Nevertheless, she tried to stick to type. 'What is it, Mr Martin? Some bloody time this! An' three of yis, an' all!'

  `Is he here, Joanne?'

  There was a flicker, a momentary tensing around those eyes. 'Who?'

  `You know who. Paul Ainscow?'

  `Naw! Paul's no here. Why should he be?'

  `Because he's been missing for about the same time that you've been away from the sauna. Your spell off must have done you good. You look pretty healthy to me. Now open up and let us in. We want to interview Ainscow in connection with serious offences, and we've got reason to believe that he might be here. We've got a Sheriff's warrant to come in, so let that chain off the door.'

  `Look, he's no' here. Why don't y'all just fuck off!'

  Martin's jaw tightened. 'Sorry, Joanne, I'm not kidding. Either you let us in or that door comes off its hinges.'

  The woman opened her mouth as if to argue, then all at once gave in. The door closed, its chain rattled as it was released, and then it swung open fully.

  `Right,' said Martin. 'That's sensible. Listen, we're not here to hurt you or lift you or anything else. It's Ainscow we want.' ‘But ah tell ye-'

  `We have to see for ourselves. Now, you wait out here with DI Rose, while Neil and I search the place.' He brushed past her into the flat, Mcllhenney on his heels.

  `Careful, Neil,' he warned. The first of the three doors off the hall was ajar. He turned back to Joanne Virtue. 'Bedroom?'

  She nodded reluctantly. 'Aye. And the bog on the right, and the living room at the far end. The kitchen's off that. Mind ye don't break anything.

  Martin pushed the door open and stepped quickly inside, tensed and ready for action. The room was empty, yet full of signs of recent occupancy. The musky smell of sex hung in the air. The bed was rumpled, and both pillows were crushed. There were night tables on either side, and on each lay a mug. Martin picked one up. It was half full of what looked like coffee, and it was still slightly warm. He checked the other. It was almost drained, but the dregs had not yet dried to a stain. He stepped back into the hall, signalling to Mcllhenney to open the bathroom door. An aerosol can of shaving gel and a razor lay on the shelf above the basin. Quickly they checked the living room and kitchen. They too were empty, but further signs of a guest were strewn all around.

  `Okay, ladies,' Martin called. 'You can come in now.'

  A few seconds later, Joanne Virtue stepped hesitantly into the room, with Maggie Rose close behind her.

  `Okay, Joanne,' snapped Martin. 'No crap. How long has he been here? Since Monday?'

  `Sunday night, late,' she said softly.

  `An
d when did he go?'

  `About twenty minutes ago.'

  `It must have been a sudden decision, judging from those mugs in the bedroom. What happened? Did that fat bastard Barratt tip you off? I promised him that if he did, I would rip his balls off. He should have believed me.'

  Big Joanne shook her head. Naw, it wisnae Ricky. We ha this call a wee while ago. Just after ten. We've been screenin all the phone-calls — no' that there've been many — leaving the answer machine on all the time. So we taped it.'

  `That makes a change,' said Martin. 'A wee bit of luck for once. Play it back for us.'

  She stepped over to a low sideboard on which the combination phone and answering machine sat, and pressed the replay button. There was a whirr as the tape rewound. Joanne turned up the volume.

  Suddenly the rewind stopped and replay began. After four or five seconds, there was an intake of breath and a voice filled the room: a strange, strained voice, as if the speaker was concentrating very hard on something very important. 'Don't say anything. Just listen. I need to see you right away. It's about Tony's will. It's turned up. Go to the Botanics now, get in the back gate, and meet me at the entrance to the big glasshouse at eleven. Get moving.'

  The line clicked as the phone at the other end was replaced. There was a whistle for a few seconds, before the machine switched itself off.

  Martin and Mcllhenney looked at each other in astonishment. 'Jesus!' whispered the detective sergeant.

  `Do you know who that is?' Martin asked Joanne.

  It sounded like that wee lawyer chap, Cocozza — him that was Tony Manson's message boy. Paul knows him. He sounded funny,

  'No bloody wonder, Joanne. He's been dead for a day and a half!’

  Ninety-seven

  Skinner leapt to the phone and picked it up on the first ring. For one of the few times in his short life, Jazz had been difficult about sleep. Eventually he had succumbed to the cajoling of his parents, and now lay upstairs, fitfully, in his cot.

  `Hello: Skinner was unusually curt.

  `Bob, sorry, did I wake you?'

  `No, but you'd better not have wakened the baby. What's the score?'

  `I'm calling from Joanne's. Ainscow was here, but he's gone. Called by telephone, half an hour ago, to a meeting at the big glasshouse in the Botanics at eleven. Right this minute, in fact.'

  `Who called him?'

  'Would you believe, Richard Cocozza?'

  `That's a bloody good trick. A tape.'

  `Yes. That must have been why he was tortured. To force him to tape a message setting up Ainscow, and to get Joanne's telephone number out of him.'

  `Clever bastard, right enough,' said Skinner, almost to himself.

  `Yes,' agreed Martin. Lucan’s English must have been a lot better than he let on. And his brother must have given him chapter and verse on everyone involved at this end. We’re heading off there now, boss. Will you call in back-up?'

  `Bugger that! I'm your back-up.'

  Martin laughed. 'So much for the family man. See you at the Inverleith Row gate.'

  Skinner hung up. He turned, to find Sarah standing in the doorway.

  `What was that?'

  `Andy.'

  `What's up?'

  ‘Ainscow. Someone's got to him before we did. He's walking into a trap. I've got to go — and I could be a while.'

  She crossed the room and kissed him. 'Okay, but be safe.' `Don't worry, love. This one's just a walk in the park. Literally.'

  He picked up the sweater which he had discarded earlier while cradling Jazz, and pulled it on as he went out into the cool night air. The garden was flooded by the light of a full moon as he walked to his car, reversed out into Fairyhouse Avenue, and headed towards Inverleith, and Edinburgh's famous Royal Botanic Garden. He was driving fast up East Fettes Avenue, past the headquarters building, when his car-phone rang. He pushed the receive button.

  `Bob, my friend. It is Arturo Pujol. I know it is late, but Sarah said it was okay to call you with my news. We have had a great excitement again in L'Escala. The man you are looking for in Britain, Lucan, the brother of Vaudan. He is here in Spain, in jail.'

  Skinner smiled to himself in the dark of the car, a satisfied smile — the sort that comes with the final piece of the jigsaw. What happened?' he asked.

  It was this afternoon. Young Joaquim — the officer who was with you and whose shot killed Vaudan — he was leaving the Gala, the bar across from my barracks, when he was attacked

  by a wild-eyed man with a knife. The man was dirty and had been days needing a shave. It was Lucan, and he had in his pocket a page torn from our local newspaper, the Empordan, describing Vaudan's death, and with a photograph of the man who shot him. Joaquim was cut, but he fought him off, and was able to stop him with two shots in the leg. He said later that he had been aiming for his head.' Pujol paused. 'It seems that. Joaquim's shooting has returned to its normal form. Does all that interest you?'

  As Pujol finished his tale, Skinner drew his car to a halt beside the side entrance to the Botanic Garden. 'Arturo,' he said, 'it's fascinating. I'm a bit busy right now, but I'll call you back tomorrow. We'll talk further and, who knows, I may have an even stranger story for you.'

  Ninety-eight

  Martin took the roundabout at high speed, and swung back towards Ferry Road, the shortest route from Leith to the Botanic Garden.

  The colourful sparkling of the moonlight on the petrol spill gave him advance warning of the hazard, but far too late for him to take any evasive action. He hit the slick as he exited from the roundabout, and the car went into an uncontrollable spin. He steered into it, but with absolutely no effect. Mcllhenney, in the front passenger seat, braced himself for the impact which he saw coming, but which Martin did not, as he fought for control.

  The off-side of the car slammed into the base of the solid iron lamp-standard, wrapping itself around it like a sleeping lover in the night. Maggie Rose, in the back seat, was held in place by her retaining strap. Mcllhenney was pulled up short by his belt, as it cut into his chest and side. But Andy Martin, taken unawares, slammed sideways into the arch of the driver's door, his head hitting the tightly padded metal with a definitive thud. He rebounded back against Mcllhenney, unconscious, and with blood beginning to trickle from a cut above his right

  eye.

  The engine stalled. Rose and Mcllhenney sat in the shocked silence, until Martin's weight against him triggered the sergeant into action. Gently he straightened the other man on his seat, with his head against its restraint.

  `Sir,' he said urgently. 'Andy?'

  Martin gave a faint groan, but that was all.

  `He's spark out,' said Mcllhenney to Rose, over his shoulder. 'See if the phone's still working.'

  The inspector obeyed her subordinate's order and took the instrument from its cradle between the front seats. Its dial showed that it was still operational. She keyed in the Fettes number. 'This is DI Rose. I'm at the foot of Ferry Road at the Leith end, in DS Martin's car. There's been an accident. One injured: unconscious. Get an ambulance here fast.' She ended the call and searched her diary for Skinner's car-phone number. She dialled it in and waited.

  `I don't believe it,' she said to Mcllhenney. The boss's car-phone is engaged!'

  She dialled another number: her own. A sleepy-voiced Mario McGuire answered. Thirty seconds later he was wide awake and calling Brian Mackie.

  Ninety-nine

  ‘Come on, people, you should have been here first!'

  Skinner voiced his exasperation in the darkness of his car as he sat at the end of the short roadway off Inverleith Row, which led to the smaller of the two gates into the Royal Botanic Garden. He glanced at the computer-set time display on the LCD panel of his cassette player. It showed seven minutes past eleven.

  He shook his head. 'Can't wait any longer,' he muttered to himself. He stepped out of the car, and clambered over the gate with surprising agility for a man in his mid-forties.

  The Botanics, as the p
eople of Edinburgh know it, is one of the world's great gardens, set in seventy acres in the heart of Scotland's capital. Every day, save Christmas and New Year, it offers free access to thousands of visitors who walk its leafy paths among the trees, plants and shrubs, admiring and sometimes feeding the pigeons, ducks and impertinent squirrels who animate the scene.

  The centrepiece of the Botanics is its great glasshouse. As Skinner emerged into the wide open space of the garden, he saw it three hundred yards away, silhouetted massively against the northern skyline. To prevent any chance of his being spotted in the moonlight, he hugged the trees to his right as he ran towards the building, taking extra cover from their darkness, but occasionally leaving the grass and cutting through the planted beds. Soon, he had reached the steps which led up towards the scientific study centre. He looked along the length of the Glasshouse, but saw no figures, no shapes, no movement. Pressing himself against the glass wall, he crept silently along towards the main entrance.

  The flash of moonlight from the slivers of glass on the ground caught his eye before he reached the doorway. He froze for a second, listening, but heard nothing. Very slowly he advanced towards the entrance, moving lightly on his feet. When he had almost reached it, he broke away from the wall in a wide sweep and flattened himself against a tree opposite the doorway. One of the double doors was wide open, allowing him a clear view into the reception area. It was empty. Taking a deep breath, he pushed himself off from his tree and reached the door in a few strides, taking care not to step on the broken glass lest he make a sound. Inside the small hallway, a corridor led off to the right towards offices and to the scientific centre. To the left, another door led to the glasshouse itself. He stepped past the reception desk and tried its handle. It opened silently, and Skinner slipped into the first gallery of the great glass structure.

  The door closed automatically behind him and, as it did, he looked around. Moonbeams shone through the higher branches of the trees and bushes, casting weird shadows on the paved walkways which led visitors through each section of the exhibition. He listened again, but still the silence was total. Then, through the foliage, he caught a flash of artificial light. He moved towards the source, almost on tiptoe, until he came to a second door. Through its glass, he could make out, to his left, a series of illuminated panels in which floated an assortment of aquatic plants, their fronds moving in the tanks' continuous aeration. He opened the door and stepped into the expected darkness beyond.