Skinner's ghosts bs-7

by Quintin Jardine

  Number 12 did not have new UPVC windows. Its were wooden, modern enough, but matching only a few others in the street. He held the rusty metal gate open for Skinner and followed him into a 99 short driveway. The house was fronted by a dark green privet hedge, in need of a trim, and by weedy grass on either side of the path, in need of cutting. The blue-painted, half-glazed front door was scratched, and marked at the bottom, as if it was kicked regularly.

  'No' exactly house-proud, sir,' muttered Mcl henney, as he pressed the white plastic bell-push.

  They saw the figure approach through the obscured glass, seeming to shamble rather than walk. The door opened, slowly. Although the name had meant nothing to him when he had heard it first, Skinner recognised Rose Grayson at once. Part of the street furniture of the village; a presence on his occasional visits to the local pubs.

  She was a big woman, aged anywhere between forty and fifty, five feet eight and fat, hipless, with a thick waist. Despite the fine weather, a nylon housecoat hung loosely round her shoulders, covering a dirty pink sweater and a crumpled grey dress. On her feet were carpet slippers, trimmed with grey-pink artificial fur. A cigarette hung loosely between the first two fingers of her right hand. At once Skinner formed a mental picture of her husband, Michael, skinny, badly suited, with a shock of greasy dark hair, and the permanent scowl of an evil disposition. The Graysons were a couple whom the rest of the village left to themselves.

  Rose Grayson sighed, as if the unannounced appearance at her door of two strange men in suits was not an unusual occurrence.

  'Aye?' she asked, wearily, with a permanently defeated tone to her voice.

  'Police, Mrs Grayson,' Skinner announced. 'We'd like a word. Is your husband at work?'

  'You must be fuckin'jokin', mister. He's out the back. Yis'd better come in.' She turned and led them into the house. The embossed wallpaper in the hal had been painted over, but a long time before.

  Dirty curls made their way up from the skirting board. The living room looked like a war zone, littered with discarded newspapers, empty beer cans and ful ash trays. Automatical y the policemen breathed as gently as they could, trying to deflect the smell of the woman and of her shabby surroundings.

  'Haud on a minute,' she said. 'Ah'll get Mick.' She stepped across to the window, white on the outside with what looked like a seagull's message, and rapped on the glass. Outside the policemen saw a man in a deck chair, as he started, as if from sleep. He was wearing the crumpled trousers of a dark suit, braces and a blue-striped shirt. He was barefoot. Rose Grayson waved her husband into the house, and turned towards her visitors. In the light from the window, they noticed for the first time a bruise beneath her left eye.

  A few seconds later, Mick Grayson came into the living room, tripping over the frayed edge of the carpet and stumbling as he entered, 100 cursing softly. 'Who've you?' he began, then looked at Skinner for the first time. 'Here, don't ah ken you? What d'yis want?'

  'You might know me by sight, Mr Grayson,' said the DCC, 'but that's all. My name is Skinner, and this is Sergeant Mcllhenney. We're police officers.'

  The man's chest puffed out aggressively. 'Ah havenae done anything.' He turned suddenly on his wife. 'You havenae been nickin' fae the Co-op again, have ye, ya bitch?' he said, loudly. He made towards her, raising his right hand, as if to hit her. Before he had taken more than two steps Mcllhenney grabbed him by the wrist and swung him round.

  Grayson made the merest of gestures towards him with his free hand, bunched into a fist, but stopped abruptly, as common sense, or self-preservation, took over. 'Wise man,' said the sergeant, giving the wrist a quick, painful squeeze before releasing it.

  'Look,' said Skinner, 'for once we don't want to talk to you about anything you've done. We're looking for help with an investigation.'

  Mick Grayson, subdued, looked at him. 'That's a'right then,' he said, managing, amazingly, to sound condescending. 'Whit is it?'

  'We're told that you two were out on Saturday night, and that at around eleven you were having an argument just outside the vil age hal .'

  Grayson looked blank. 'Were we?' he said.

  His wife narrowed her eyes, her hand going to the bruise on her cheek. 'Aye,' she muttered, fiercely. 'We were.'

  Her husband's eyes dropped. 'Oh aye, so we were.'

  'What was the barney about?' Mcl henney asked.

  Rose Grayson glowered. 'That yin bought himself a pint and…'

  Her voice soared with indignation, '… a whisky wi' the last of our money, and never got anything for me. Honest taste God, he's a miserable wee toerag wi' a drink in him, so he is. Come taste think of it, he's a miserable wee toerag a' the time.'

  'Aye,' said Skinner,' but he's your miserable wee toerag, isn't he?'

  He went on quickly. 'Right, we've got you two at the foot of the hill between the Post Office and Bissett's, having a ding-dong. Now think careful y. On your way past, and while this was going on, did you see anyone in the phone box?'

  Mick Grayson shook his head. 'Naw,' said his wife.

  'Think carefully, I said. This is important.'

  Husband and wife, reproved, knitted their brows. But eventual y, they shook their heads. 'Naw,' said Mick, 'Ah honestly cannae remember.'

  The DCC sighed. 'Well did you see anyone at all in the area?'

  There was a pause. Rose looked at her spouse, a new hesitant look in her eyes. 'Well,' she said finally, more to Mick than to the policemen, 'there was yon man.'

  Grayson nodded, briefly, but it was enough. She looked back to Skinner and Mcl henney. 'We were havin' a bamey, like you said. I shoved Mick and he hut me. Just after that, this man appeared, door the hill, well-dressed like. Ah said taste him, "Did you see that, mister?"

  He nodded his head and just went on. "Some fuckin' gent you," Ah shouted after him.

  'He stopped at that, and he said taste Mick, "Don't hit the lady, then." He'd have walked on again, but Mick took a swing at him.'

  'So what did he do, this man?' urged Skinner.

  Grimly, unexpectedly, Rose Grayson smiled. 'He flattened the wee toerag, didn't he? Only hit him the wance, but he laid him as broad as he was long.' The smile broadened into a grin.

  'Then what?'

  'He turned away, got intae a motor in the vil age hal car park, and drove off, back up the hil. He just missed runnin' Mick over. More's the pity,' she added, sincerely.

  Skinner looked at Mcl henney, and shook his head. 'Describe him,' he snapped.

  She shrugged. 'Wee bit smal er than you, slim like, dark hair.'

  Mick Grayson shook his head. 'Naw, he wisnae like that. He was tal er than yon man, and he had fair hair.'

  'Come on,' Mcl henney barked, 'make up your minds. Fair hair?

  Dark hair? Tal? Short? Which is it?'

  'Ah'm right,' said Rose.

  'Naw ye're no'!' her husband insisted.

  'Jesus Christ!' shouted Skinner, exasperated. 'We're agreed, then, that he wasn't a bald-headed dwarf He looked at Rose. 'How about his car? What colour was it?'

  'Light,' she answered. 'But it was shining orange under the street light, so a couldnae tell for sure.'

  'What make?'

  She shrugged. 'Ah dinnae ken things like that.'

  The DCC sighed. 'Okay, one last thing. When the guy got to the top of the hil, did he turn right or left?' She looked at him, befuddled.

  'Towards North Berwick, or towards Aberlady?' he asked, patient once again.

  She paused, then nodded. 'North Berwick. He wis heading for North Berwick,' she announced, with a smile of satisfaction.

  Skinner nodded. 'Good. Something at least. Right, that's as far as we can take it. Come on, Neil.' The policemen headed for the doorway, until Skinner turned. He pointed at Mick Grayson.

  'You,' he said, evenly. 'If I ever hear that you've hit your wife again, I'l have you barred from every pub in East Lothian.' He 102 strode off, leading Mcl henney out, into the fresh air.

  'What a pair of disasters,' the Serge
ant exploded, outside.

  'Say that again,' Skinner agreed. 'Still, we've got something at least. Assuming it was our man, he was heading out of Gul ane.

  There's nowhere beyond the Post Office where he wouldn't stick out like a sore thumb.'

  29

  'Does it take you any further?'

  Skinner shook his head. 'Not real y, Pam. I had hoped that we'd come up with a description of the guy, but not a double dose. That's worse than useless. We can hardly announce that we're looking for someone who's either tall and fair or stocky and dark, or issue two photofits.'

  'Which one do you think is most likely to be accurate?' she asked.

  'Hah! Take your pick on that one. The Graysons were both pissed as rats. The only thing she was certain about was the direction he took away from the scene.'

  'And does that help?'

  Skinner knitted his brows. 'Maybe it does. It tells me that if he does have the boy hidden, it isn't in Gullane itself. As I said to Big Neil, most of the holiday houses are to the west of the village. The eastern part was built much later. The houses are closer together, on smaller plots, and nearly all of them are occupied.'

  'So what do you do next?'

  'I've spoken to Andy. We've pretty well decided to tell the press tomorrow that we're widening the search to East Lothian. We can't knock on every door in the county, but there are quite a few empty properties in North Berwick. We can check them, at least.'

  She looked at him doubtfully. 'Is there much chance of a result?'

  He smiled, sadly. 'Next to bugger al,' he admitted. 'But what else can we do? Andy'11 set the ball rol ing at his press briefing tomorrow.'

  He leaned back on the couch, the remnants of his late supper still on a tray in his lap, and sighed. She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead.

  'Cheer up, love,' she said. 'At least the investigation's still doing something'.

  'Yes, but to what purpose? It's been three days since that phone cal: three days since the guy said that we'd hear from him again.

  Three days with that wee boy at this nutter's mercy. "At my disposition," he said. It chills my blood, to think what might be happening to him.'

  She stood up, took the tray from him, laid it on the floor, and tugged at his arm. 'Bob, enough,' she said. 'You look knackered and you sound depressed. It's almost eleven. Let's go to bed, even if it's only to sleep.'

  He nodded. 'Yes, okay.' He rose, wearily, taking her hand as she led him through to the bedroom.

  The bedside lamp was stil on as she slipped in beside him, naked.

  'Of course,' she said. 'We don't have to sleep.' He reached across, without a word, and switched the light off. They made love silently.

  Pamela, inventive as always, took the initiative, allowing him time to settle his mind and drawing his attention towards her. And yet, even as he climaxed, with his lover bucking and writhing astride him, there was a part of his mind that was somewhere else.

  She knew it, too. She was barely finished, before she rolled away and lay with her back to him in the dark. 'That was a new twist,' she said. 'It's usually the woman who fakes it!'

  He was moved by the hurt in her voice. 'No, Pam, I didn't, honest.

  It was good, great, like always. I just wasn't real y in the mood. I'm sorry, honey.' He put a hand on her hip, and leaned over her, kissing her neck. She turned on to her back, and looked up at him.

  'What is it, then?' she asked. 'Second thoughts?'

  He shook his head. 'Nothing to do with you and me,' he promised.

  'I just can't get this man out of my mind. He's singled me out to be contacted. He kil ed Leona, and she was my friend. He kidnapped her son, the wee boy I rescued last year. It's as if he's speaking directly to me, and there's a taunt in it. He even came to my home village to call me.

  'It's as if he's chal enging me to guess where he's hiding the kid.'

  He stopped short, and she could see his eyes, gleaming in the light from the window. 'Can you imagine how angry that makes me?

  And how frustrated?'

  Pamela propped herself up on her elbows, the edge of the duvet fal ing around her waist. 'Yes,' she said softly, 'I can imagine. I'm sorry I'm such a petulant bitch.'

  He laid a hand on the flat of her stomach, rubbing it gently. 'You're not,' he murmured. 'Not at al. You're under pressure too, with the Spotlight article, and those appal ing photos. With one thing and another, it's as if we're drowning, you and I.'

  She laid her hand on his, half a second before it suddenly clenched, tightening on her belly. 'Drowning!' he hissed, suddenly.

  30

  When the telephone rang, Alex and Andy were watching a video.

  One of the Batman series with interchangeable heroes and big-name villains, was reaching its conclusion.

  'Damn,' said Skinner's daughter, freezing the frame and picking up the telephone, to find her father on the other end. 'Pops, really,' she said. 'We were just getting to the good bit.

  'Of the movie, I meant!' She passed the phone to her fiance.

  'Yes, Bob,' said Martin. 'What's the panic?'

  'No panic, but a sudden thought. Quite clearly, this guy is thumbing his nose at me, with a cal to my private line from my home vil age. This guy doesn't want to get caught, but he does want to show us how clever, resourceful and daring he is. You agree with me?'

  'Yes, I'l go along with that.'

  'Good, now try this one for size. If this guy is an expert on me, and knows about my connection with Mark, don't you think he's bound to know where I first encountered the child?'

  Martin whistled. 'You think he might be hiding him up on the moors, where the plane went down?'

  'I don't think, I wonder. Let's postpone the press briefing tomorrow, and take a look up there.'

  'Okay,' said the Head ofCID, shifting his position against the back of the sofa, as Alex stood up to go into the kitchen. 'I'l do that, first thing. I'l put men on al the roads, then get a helicopter to take a look at al the sheds and bothies scattered about up there.'

  'It makes sense, Andy,' Skinner stressed. 'We're pretty certain that he took the laddie out of the city, yet he wouldn't have risked being too long on the road, not with him in his car. Those moors aren't much more than half an hour from the McGrath house.'

  'Sure, I agree. We'l do it, first thing. Now you get some sleep and let us finish our video.'

  He replaced the phone just as Alex came back into the living room, carrying two cans of Diet Coke. 'What did Pops want?' she asked.

  Andy grinned. 'He's had a hunch. You know what he's like when he gets one of them.'

  'Do I! Is it a good one?'

  'Could be. They usual y are.'

  Alex handed him his Coke, and sat beside him once again. He picked up the video control, but she put her hand on his before he could press the play button. 'Andy,' she whispered. 'Do you think my dad's losing it?'

  He looked at her, surprised. 'Bob? Never. He's stil firing on al cylinders. What made you ask that, anyway?'

  She leaned her head on her shoulders. 'Oh, I don't know,' she said, sadly. 'He just seems like such a lost soul just now.'

  Andy touched her chin, gently, and tilted her face towards him.

  'Love, you can see how much he's missing Sarah and Jazz. So can I.

  So can the Chief. Your dad's the only one who doesn't realise it.'

  'No.' She was suddenly indignant. 'Because he's shacked up with this Pamela woman!'

  'Maybe. She was there for him when he had his bust-up with Sarah.

  She helps him ward off the loneliness. Maybe he does the same for her.'

  'Is she a gold-digger, d'you think? Does she have an eye for the main chance?'

  He shook his head, after a few seconds' thought. 'No. I wouldn't say so. I don't think she sees herself as your next stepmother, if that's what you mean.'

  'Do you like her, Andy?'

  He pondered her question again. 'Yes, I reckon I do. She's bright, intelligent and she seems to care fo
r Bob a lot. She had nothing to do with his marriage break-up, remember.'

  'Maybe not, but with her around there's no chance of it being mended.'

  Andy sighed. 'That, my darling, is something your dad's got to figure out for himself. Always assuming that he wants to mend it, that is.'

  'And his judgement, in sleeping with this woman? What do you think of that? Honestly?'

  He looked her in the eye. 'We're all entitled to make mistakes, love.'

  Alex grunted. 'Let's hope the Police Board take that view tomorrow,' she said, gloomily.

  31

  The press benches in Edinburgh's ornate Victorian council chamber had never been more ful for a meeting of the Joint Police Board, made up of elected members of the local authorities whose areas the force covered.

  The Chair of the Board, MarciaTopham, a Labour council or from Midlothian, was regarded by Sir James Proud as a moderate, and someone with whom he could work. Or as Bob Skinner often put it in private, someone whom he could twist round his little finger.

  Today was different. In the ante-room, outside the chamber, the Chief Constable saw that Council or Topham looked tense and nervous. As he had anticipated. Skinner's request to address the meeting at the close of the discussion had been rejected, after consultation by the Chair with her senior colleagues.

  'Like I said,' the DCC had growled. 'She's had her orders.'

  A buzz went round the press gallery as the members and officials filed into the chamber, and as they saw that Bob Skinner was not in attendance. Marcia Topham frowned in their direction, but her disapproval was ignored.

  She cal ed the meeting to order quickly, pounding on the old mahogany desk with her gavel. 'Ladies, gentlemen,' she said loudly, to mask the tremor in her voice. 'Let us proceed.'

  She looked around the members, and nodded to the Chief Constable, who was seated in the well of the chamber, alongside the Board's solicitor. 'Item One,' she announced.

  Bob Skinner grudged every minute of the time that he was forced, occasionally, to spend at Board meetings. It was an advisory body, but under the previous administration it had become a vehicle for political speeches. However, on the basis of a few months' evidence, the change of government had seen little change in the nature of the meetings.