Quintin Jardine - Skinner Skinner 12

by Head Shot (pdf)

  Mcl henney watched him, saw him nod quietly.

  'Good, good. Okay the man's name is Rosewell, George Rosewell. He has a current account and a credit card, that's also operated through your bank. I need to know whether either of them has been used this week, I need to know the last time either was used, and in the case of the cash card I need to know how much money was withdrawn. Oh yes, and I'd like the current account balance.' He nodded again. 'Sure you can call me back; I'l be here for a while. Use this number, and keep a note of it for the future: emergencies only, mind.' He read out his direct line number.

  'That's changed every so often, isn't it?' asked Mcl henney as he hung up.

  'Aye, but he'll never use it. The boy just needed to feel important, that's all; a lot of these small branch managers are shit-scared of head office these days.'

  'Why do you need that stuff anyway?'

  'I'm stil trying to find Maggie's old man, so I can beat his fucking brains in ... or at least run him out of Edinburgh. He hasn't been at work all week, and his house looked like the Marie Celeste.'

  'You went in?'

  'You're dead right I went in. I was paying a family visit, Neil. . . and even if it,hadn't been, in this job I could have justified it. The man has a history of violence and child abuse, he's living under an alias and he's in a wholly unsuitable job.'

  'Child abuse?'

  'Don't ask. Anyhow, there were the congealed leavings of pie, beans and chips on his kitchen table, with a half-read Sunday Mail beside them. I spoke to a neighbour. She hasn't seen him since then.'

  'He's not in the nick, is he?'

  'No. I've just checked that. Nor is he in any hospital in this area. Nor is he lying in a mortuary with a John Doe tag on his toe. Al this week's stiffs are accounted for. He has either gone on a very last-minute bargain break to Shagaluf, or he's been kidnapped by international criminals and is being held for a multi-million-pound ransom, or he's done something or upset someone to the extent that he's decided to do a runner.'

  'He's upset you.'

  'Aye, but he doesn't know that... at least I don't see how he could.'

  The phone on his desk rang; his hand shot out and picked it up.

  'McGuire. Ah, Mr Gwynn; that didn't take long. Aye, sometimes I wish the mil ennium bug had been for real; the bloody things are ruling our lives now. Okay, just hold on a minute.' He picked up a pen. 'Right.'

  As he listened, he made notes on a pad on his desk. 'That's excellent,'

  he said, as he finished. 'Now here's that other contact I promised you.'

  He glanced at a list on his desk, and read out a number. 'Thanks. So long.'

  'What was that one?' asked Mcl henney.

  'My new direct line in the Borders. You never know, the boy might be moved down there one day.'

  'Indeed, you have been here for too long.'

  'Just long enough.' McGuire glanced at his notepad. 'It was useful though. George drew thirty quid from his bank account on Tuesday of last week. Since then, neither his cash card nor his credit card has been used; his account balance is eleven hundred and forty-one pounds.'

  'He can't have run far, then. Do you think he could be in the founds of a new building somewhere?'

  'I'm beginning to wonder. If he is, I just hope it'l be heavy enough to hold the swine down.'

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  28

  Bob Skinner had been several times to the USA, before and since his marriage to his American wife. He had been to New York City and State, to Florida and to the original California Disneyland with his daughter Alex, to Houston, Texas, on an exchange visit, and to Atlanta, Georgia, as a delegate to a security conference. However he had never been to the north-western states, and nothing had prepared him for their size or for the spectacle they offered.

  The flight to Great Falls, Montana, was blessed with cloudless conditions all the way, across the pale blue of the Great Lakes, the green of Michigan, and the changing shades of the landscape below as they flew westward. Even Skinner, who tended to view the wonders of nature with a jaundiced eye, spent the entire journey looking out of the window of the aircraft.

  The hundred-mile drive down Interstate Fifteen to Helena was no less dramatic; the first half of their route, through Cascade County, ran close to the great Missouri River ... the Scot had had no idea that it originated so far north .. . past Cascade itself, then into the great open spaces of Lewis and dark. Finally they drove into the Helena Valley, overlooked by its gently sloping mountain, with the small state capital nestled at its heart.

  'Well, did you enjoy that?' asked Doherty, who had driven from the airport in a rental car, as they cruised past the State Capitol building, to arrive at the Investigations Bureau headquarters on North Roberts.

  'Yes,' Skinner admitted. 'But enough of the tourist bit. Who are we seeing?'

  'The Bureau guy's name is Tad Polhaus. The police chief is Chuck Harris, but he's on holiday, so we'll be met by the senior detective, Lieutenant Gordon Sumner.'

  The Montana investigators were waiting for them in the Bureau Chief's office on the second floor of the building. Both were in their mid thirties; Polhaus was big and beefy, his broad features proclaiming his German ancestry, while Sumner was lean and wiry, equally tall but looking like a welterweight alongside his colleague.

  Ill

  As they ran through the formalities of the introduction, and took their seats around a coffee table. Skinner looked for signs of one deferring to the other but found none. State cop and city cop seemed to treat each other as equals; there was no sign of the jurisdictional jealousy that he had found in Buffalo. However they were both visibly impressed by, and slightly in awe of, the Deputy Director of the FBI, and his Scottish companion.

  'Welcome to Montana, gentlemen,' said Polhaus. He looked at Doherty. 'I don't suppose I need to tell you, Mr Deputy Director, that your cal took us by surprise. Make no mistake though, we're hell of a glad you're here. We've run into a complete brick wall on this Wilkins homicide investigation. Any input you can give us will be more than welcome.'

  Lieutenant Sumner nodded. 'I'l second that, Tad,' he concurred, but tell me, sir, what brought this case to your attention? You gentlemen haven't come to the Queen of the Rockies just to see the sights.'

  'I have,' Skinner told him. 'I'm an observer here, just tagging along on Mr Doherty's invitation. A visiting fireman, I understand you'd cal me.'

  'Now why don't I believe that?' said the city detective. 'I did some research on you, Deputy Chief Skinner. I had a look at your force's website, and at a couple of files on Internet versions of your Scottish newspapers. I know who you are; I know what you've been into. You haven't come here for the fishing.'

  Doherty laughed. 'Goddamn Internet. Pretty soon there wil be no secrets left in this world ... but we're not at that stage yet, otherwise, pretty as your city is, we wouldn't be here. Tell me about the late Bartholomew Wilkins.'

  'There isn't much to tell,' Polhaus answered, 'as far as his life around here goes. He was sixty-eight years old but he had been among us for only the last three years, since he retired from legal practice in Chicago, Illinois. He and his wife RoseAnne bought a house here at that time.'

  'Any family?' asked Skinner.

  'They have a son named Arthur, who succeeded his father as senior partner in the Chicago firm, and two daughters, Annette and Merle.'

  'Where's the body?'

  'It was released to the family last Friday. Mrs Wilkins and her son flew back to Chicago on Saturday with the coffin, for burial in their family plot. She said that the services were scheduled for Wednesday. Is there a problem with that?'

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  'I shouldn't think so,' said Doherty. 'Were either of you two gentlemen at the crime scene?'

  'We both were,' Sumner replied. 'When she found her husband, the lady assumed at first that he had fal en and cut his head; she

  thought he was unconscious, and she reported the circumstances as such, so a paramedic crew was sent. They reali
sed that it was a fatality, so they called for a patrolman to attend. Fortunately one of our smarter guys responded. He saw that there was no obvious place for the victim to have cut himself and that there was no blood trail . . .

  indeed that there was very little blood. So he radioed in for detective backup.

  'When I got there I knew at once that this was no superficial head wound, and I knew that I was going to need Tad's resources as well as my own.'

  'Going on the report that was filed, and logged on to the national database, you decided that this was a homicide committed in the course of a burglary.'

  'That's what it was,' Polhaus exclaimed. 'We're in no doubt about it.

  There were articles removed from the house. Mr Wilkins' pocketbook was taken, containing Amex, Master and Visa cards and over four hundred dol ars in cash. The man wore a ten-grand Breitling watch. That was gone; so was a heavy gold bracelet from his other wrist and a top specification laptop computer from his desk.

  'If that doesn't constitute a burglary, sir, I don't know what does.'

  'Neither do I, Chief,' Skinner assured him. 'No one's disputing that for one minute. How about signs of entry? The report I read didn't mention that.'

  'There weren't any. Gordon and I believe that Mrs Wilkins left the back door open when she went out to the mal and that the guy just walked in. She recal ed that she locked it, but she admitted that she couldn't be certain.'

  'She's been eliminated as a possibility, I take it?'

  'Yes she has, completely. We did consider that possibility, don't worry, but the autopsy ruled that out straight away. The knife wound in the victim's head was five inches deep. It went clear through his brain; if the blade had been any longer it would have come out the other side of the skul . That was a hellish powerful blow, Mr Skinner. She couldn't have done it.'

  'Did the pathologist give you a picture of the person who did?'

  'Yes. A right-handed man, he said; probably as tall as the victim, and he was six one. Mrs Wilkins is five two; we're looking for a big guy, not a little woman.'

  'Granted,' the DCC agreed. 'How about location? Where did the attack happen?'

  'In the victim's den; his study, I suppose you'd call it in England.'

  Skinner smiled. 'I wouldn't cal it anything in England, Chief; I'm a Scot, remember. I know what a den is; I know also from my father-in law that quite often it's in converted cellar space. Was that the case here?'

  'Yes, it was. It's accessed by a door off the hall leading to a flight of stairs.'

  'Apart from the items you described, what else was taken from the house?'

  Skinner saw the frown gather on Polhaus' broad face. 'Nothing, according to Mrs Wilkins.'

  'What else was disturbed?'

  'Nothing, but so what? Our theory is that the guy broke in, started his search in the den and was disturbed by the victim. He kil ed him, grabbed what he could, and ran for it. There was a home gym next door and a shower-room beyond that. Maybe Wilkins was taking a leak and came back in.'

  'I don't deal in maybes. When you found him, were his pants wet?'

  'Excuse me?'

  'Did he void his bladder when he was stabbed?'

  'I dunno. Gordon?'

  Sumner nodded. 'Yes, sir, as I recal he did.'

  'In that case he hadn't just taken a piss.'

  The visiting detective looked from one of his hosts to the other. 'What forensic samples have you recovered from the scene?'

  'None that have significance,' the Lieutenant answered. 'We've identified every print we found in the house; no wild ones left.'

  'Fibres?'

  'Nothing out of place.'

  'Dirt from footwear?'

  'None that we found.'

  Skinner's right eyebrow rose, almost theatrically. 'Come on, gentlemen,'

  he exclaimed. 'The intruder comes through a door, which Mrs Wilkins said she locked, without leaving a trace. He comes straight down here and kills his victim, then leaves without disturbing anything in the house, without leaving a single print, or shedding a single body hair.

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  'Fine, he takes the dead man's wallet and jewellery, his laptop, and a clock off his desk. But none of the credit cards ... I don't even bother asking the question because I know the answer . . . have been used, and none of the other items have been offered for sale to any pawnshop or known fence in the massive and great state of Montana. You guys have been close up to this investigation; I understand that and I respect it. But now, take a step back from it, look at those circumstances and tel me what you see.'

  Polhaus looked at Sumner, then back at Skinner. He sighed, heavily.

  'I'll admit it; there was something about this investigation that didn't sit right, almost from the start, but out here we don't have much experience of burglary homicides. Like I said back then, we welcome your input.'

  'No one has much experience of burglary homicide, Chief,' said Doherty, gently. 'Even in the cities it's a relatively unusual type of felony. We're here because of three incidents within a two-week period, and this is one of them: three retired lawyers, with career histories going

  back to Washington in the sixties.

  'Tell me, was Mr Wilkins active in Democrat politics in Helena?'

  Polhaus laughed, unexpectedly. 'Sir, this is Montana. There ain't too many active Democrats out here. Sure, I knew that Bart was on that side, but it was in his past. You're not suggesting that's what got him killed, are you?'

  'To be frank, Chief, we don't know for sure, but at this point we are not ruling out any connection. Past involvement in Democrat politics is one of the factors linking the three homicide victims. But let's go back there; you said you knew Mr Wilkins.'

  The big investigator nodded. 'Sure I did, and so did Gordon here. We both have kids in junior high school; they have a football team . . . touch footbal only at their age, you understand . . . and Bart was one of the coaches. Football was his main interest in life, apart from politics and the law. I guess he was a pretty good player in his youth; you have to be, if you're a first-string line-backer for Notre Dame.'

  Doherty was impressed, instantly. 'He played for the Fighting Irish?'

  'Yes, sir; class of fifty-three. He had pro offers, he said, but he turned them down, and went on to Yale law school instead.'

  'Mr Grace was at Yale, wasn't he?' the FBI man asked the Scot.

  'Yes, but before fifty-three. He was back from Korea by then and starting out in practice.'

  Skinner looked at Polhaus. 'Did you play at col ege?'

  'I wish. I was good enough for high school, but I didn't make the team when I stepped up; too slow, the coaches said . . ; and they were right.'

  'Did Mr Wilkins talk much about those days?'

  'College?'

  'Well, yes, but afterwards too. Did he ever talk about his early career; his Washington days?'

  'Not much. He told me once that his father sent him there to gain work experience outside Chicago. His law firm was founded by his grandfather and his great-uncle; Wilkins, Schwartz, Wilkins, it was called, at the beginning at least. There never was a Schwartz, though; the two

  brothers added the name on for, let's say, commercial reasons. They wanted the Jewish business as wel as the Irish.'

  The DCC nodded. 'I've come across that one before.'

  'For the last eighty years, though,' Polhaus continued, 'itybeen Wilkins, Schwartz, Wilkins and Fellini. The Italian bit was for real; Bart said that the original Mr Fellini was made a partner in the early twenties, when they saw the way things were going in Chicago. They couldn't pul the same trick with the Italians; for one thing, a lot of them would only speak their native language when doing business.'

  'Are you saying the practice was Mob-connected?'

  'No, and Bart never did either. But you're a smart man, Mr Skinner; you'll realise that back in the Roaring Twenties, in Chicago, it was bound to be.'

  'And is it still?'

  It was Joe Doherty who answered. '
No,' he said, emphatical y. 'That was one of the first things I checked out when we became aware of the possible link between these three killings. The Bureau maintains a continuous investigation of organised crime in this country. We know just about al of the law firms who deal with the Mob, knowingly; Mr Wilkins' firm isn't on that list, nor is Grace, McLean, Wylie, Whyte and Oakdale, Mr Grace's firm, nor Gregory, Mozlowski and Harold, the former practice of Sander Garrett. These days, at least, they're all clean. . . although so much hot money is re-invested these days in legitimate business that it's possible to be connected without even knowing it.'

  'That's true in Europe as well,' Skinner admitted. 'The Mafia investigations in Italy have thrown up plenty of names in other countries, the UK among them, who connect up to other things.'

  'I guess we're best off out here in the wilderness. Tad,' said Sumner.

  'There is no wilderness any more, pal. I know a man, an American, 116

  who owns a large piece of Scotland, where few people, even tourists, ever go. He's officially legitimate, but still, his FBI file reads like a novel; I know in my heart that he was behind a major crime on my patch, but I'll never prove it because we killed the people who carried it out.

  'You've got a nice little city here, in the heart of a spectacular state, but make no mistake ... the world is coming to get you. Now,' he said

  sharply 'Back to the crime scene. Did Mr Wilkins keep any business papers?'

  'There was a filing cabinet in his den,' said the State Bureau Chief.

  'But we didn't check its contents. I reckon we better had now.'

  'I reckon,' agreed Skinner. 'Come on, let's do it now.'

  29

  He could see as soon as he walked through the door that she was having a bad day; frown lines showed on her forehead, and her hair, which was normal y perfectly arranged, was ruffled.

  Mario braced himself for the outburst. 'You would think that in this day and age, cash payrol s would be a thing of the past; but no such Honest to God, some of our employers are still stuck in a time-warp.