Bob Skiinner 21 Grievous Angel

by Quintin Jardine

  We waited for five minutes, before Terry appeared. He was around forty, stocky with heavy chiselled features and a chin that was in want of a shave. ‘Mr Skinner,’ he greeted me.

  I nodded an acknowledgement. ‘This is DC Martin.’

  Terry turned to him and offered his hand. As they shook, he said, ‘Good morning, son. Do you know what kippers are? Fish that need a lot of sleep. Did you like my wife? I first met her in the tunnel of love. She was digging it at the time.’

  ‘Dougie!’ I shouted. ‘Enough! What I was telling you on the doorstep, Andy; we call this guy the Comedian. Whenever our colleagues have him in for a chat, they ask him a question and he tells them a joke. That’s how it goes until they get pissed off and chuck him out. Chic Murray’s his favourite.’

  ‘Not always,’ said Terry, looking at me. ‘Did you hear the one about the couple in the old folks’ home?’

  ‘Dougie,’ I told him, seriously. ‘I am not your local CID; I’ve got no sense of humour. You try that routine with me, and I will knock your fucking head off. Then you’ll wish you’d had breakfast before we arrived.’

  ‘No fun you, big man,’ he grunted. ‘Sit down then.’ He sat, we followed suit. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘You can convince me that Jackie Charles didn’t have Tony Manson’s driver killed.’

  I studied his face. His eyes widened, and his mouth opened for a second in a gasp. He didn’t put that on. ‘Now it’s you that’s fucking joking,’ he muttered.

  ‘You know me better than that.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Very early Wednesday morning, in Infirmary Street Baths.’

  ‘That dead bloke was Tony’s guy?’ he exclaimed. ‘Are you fucking serious?’

  He was scared, and that interested me.

  ‘That’s who it was. Whoever did it was very determined.’ Slowly and deliberately, I described how Marlon had died.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ he said, when I was finished. ‘Are you sure it wasn’t Tony himself?’

  ‘I can’t be a hundred per cent certain that it wasn’t, but Tony’s rogering the boy’s mother. Plus, he’s sent big Lennie Plenderleith to bodyguard her until he gets back. So, Dougie, go on, tell me. Is Jackie upset with Manson over something?’

  ‘No,’ he insisted. ‘No way. Jackie’s fine wi’ Tony.’

  He was rattled all right. If I had turned up on his doorstep asking that question, then it could only be a matter of time before Manson came to ask it as well, and his interrogation techniques weren’t subject to the same limitations as mine.

  ‘Then prove it to me,’ I challenged. ‘Get out there and ask questions. Two guys in a Transit van; we don’t know the colour and we don’t have the number, but that’s what they drove. Who are they and who were they working for? You’ll find me at Fettes; Serious Crimes office. Make it soon.’

  We left him in his armchair, pondering the gloom that was darkening a sunny day outside.

  ‘Will we get anything from him?’ Martin asked.

  ‘We’ve got something already. From Terry’s reaction in there I know for sure that Jackie Charles isn’t involved. That’s a start. He might come up with something on the van. To be realistic, he’s got more chance than we have. There isn’t a door in Edinburgh that’s closed to him. He’s tight with Charles and he’s on fairly good terms with Manson. That gives him a lot of clout.’

  I unlocked the Land Rover. The Mondeo had gone, probably in the direction of Jenners: Jane Terry was a designer dresser. ‘On to the next,’ I said.

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Slateford.’

  ‘What’s in Slateford?’

  ‘The new generation.’

  I drove across town, with the volume on the CD player turned up so that I didn’t have to talk. I was too busy thinking about Marlon, and what he’d known, or done, for him to die that way, thinking about Alison, and thinking about our next port of call. Eventually I pulled up outside a pub in Slateford Road. It was called Caballero’s, a fanciful name if ever I’d heard one, and it occupied much of the ground floor of a tenement building with three storeys of flats above.

  ‘Ever been here?’ I asked Martin.

  He nodded. ‘About a month ago, with the rugby team, after a game at Myreside.’

  ‘You didn’t cause any trouble, I hope.’

  ‘None, boss. Most of the tales are exaggerated.’ He laughed. ‘Most of them.’

  I led the way inside, and looked around. The place had been refitted since my last visit. The old island bar had gone, and had been replaced by one that ran most of the length of the back wall. There were booths on either side, but the floor was clear apart from two raised platforms, about four feet high, each with a pole in the centre running all the way up to the ceiling. There were no dancers in place though, too early for that, only a couple of barmen, one per customer.

  ‘What can I get you gents?’ one of them asked, in an accent that had not come from any part of the city or its environs. His black hair was slicked back and he wore a uniform that might have looked vaguely Spanish, to someone who’d never been to Spain.

  ‘You can get us Tomas,’ I replied.

  ‘He’s no’ in.’

  ‘My car’s parked next to his. Please don’t piss us about, mate, or I’ll be checking your immigration status.’

  The barman’s face flushed, but before I had to lean any harder, a door opened beyond the serving area and a man stepped through it. He was young, still in his twenties and not much older than Martin, but he had the air of a leader about him, and a hint of danger too. ‘Mr Skinner,’ he exclaimed, in an accent similar to that of the barman, but with more edges knocked off. He extended a hand that carried, on the back, a tattoo of a man on a horse. We shook. ‘I saw you on the TV in my office. Welcome to Caballero’s. It’s good to see you.’

  ‘And you, Tomas. This is DC Martin; remember the name and the face.’

  ‘I do remember it; the face at least. You were in here a few weeks back; you chinned one of your rugby pals when he got out of order with one of my dancers. You were very impressive.’

  I looked at Martin; he shrugged, as if to say, ‘Rather I did it than his bouncers.’

  ‘Andy, this is Tomas Zaliukas. If you ever heard anyone mention the name Tommy Zale, he’s who they’re talking about.’

  ‘Please, Mr Skinner; I used to think that name was macho, but now I’m trying to shake it off. I’m proud Lithuanian, proud of my name.’

  ‘You’ll never manage that, Tomas. It’ll always be hanging around. Now, take us somewhere private, please.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said, ‘come through the back.’ He led us into an office that was furnished more like a sitting room. On a long sideboard were three television sets, but two were monitors fed by cameras in the bar. One of them was trained on the till. I smiled when I saw it, and he read my mind. ‘You can never be too careful, Mr Skinner,’ he chuckled.

  ‘I hope you mean that, Tomas,’ I replied. ‘I put my judgement on the line when I backed you for the licence of this place and for your pub in Leith, and I don’t want to be proved wrong.’

  He looked offended. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Once upon a time, when you were younger and wilder, you were Tony Manson’s driver, yes?’

  ‘You know I was. But like you say, I was younger then, not long ashore from jumping ship in Edinburgh. I moved on since then.’

  ‘And you’re doing well for yourself, I’ll give you that.’ He nodded his thanks. ‘But,’ I went on, ‘as part of moving on, after the Iron Curtain was pulled aside, you brought in a crowd of your fellow countrymen. We both know that some of the stuff they did, for Manson and others, would have landed them in jail for a hell of a long time if it could have been proved, and that you’d have been alongside them, if we could have nailed you for setting it up.’

  He frowned, and went tight-lipped. ‘I say nothing about that.’

  ‘No, and I’m not asking you to. We’re past the bullshit st
age, you and me. I don’t pursue lost causes; I prefer to concentrate on keeping you straight.’

  ‘Okay.’ He was showing more signs of irritability. ‘But now I straight, so?’ he grumbled.

  ‘Do you know who’s been doing your old job lately, chauffeuring?’

  ‘No. Why should I? I keep my distance from Tony, and he’s okay with that.’

  ‘Marlon Watson,’ I said.

  ‘That’s who?’

  ‘Yes.’ I sat and waited, watching Zaliukas’s mind work.

  It clicked. ‘The gadgie that was found swimming in an empty pool?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  His eyebrows rose. ‘Poor lad. Who did he upset?’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out. Whoever it was, he used two guys to make his point, unless he didn’t subcontract the job, and that’s not usually how it goes. What I want to ask you, Tomas, without throwing any accusations your way, is this. How sure are you that all your Lithuanian associates are under your control? Would any of them take on freelance work?’

  ‘If any of them did . . .’ he murmured.

  ‘. . . you’d give us their names.’

  ‘Sure I would,’ he said, instantly, but I wasn’t convinced. ‘But I trust them all, Mr Skinner, I trust them all. Two of them, you said?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘They used a Ford Transit for the job, unmarked.’

  Zaliukas shrugged, and grinned; the edginess between us was gone. ‘That’s my boys off hook then. None of them would drive shit like that.’

  ‘Is he really legit, boss?’ Martin asked, as we left. ‘He seemed to have . . .’ He stopped. ‘I don’t know quite how to put this, but I’ve come across a couple of people in the short time I’ve been on CID. One was a paedophile and the other was crazy; he had strangled his sister. They both gave me the same feeling, that they were different from the rest of us; it seemed to come off them in waves. I’ve just had it again.’

  I was pleased to hear him say that, although I didn’t tell him; it was a big step along the way to being a good detective. ‘I remember the two you’re talking about,’ I said, ‘although I was nowhere near the investigation. Psychopaths, both of them, and very obviously; they should have been stopped before they got as far as they did. It’s not always that simple though. About eight years ago, there was a robbery homicide. It was three or four years before it was solved. Three people were involved. One disappeared without trace; the other two, a man and a woman, were both psychopaths, and classically so, yet they were successful people with conventional lives, and had given no hint of their real selves, even after their crime. Yes, Tomas gives off a vibe, and he might be diagnosed as psychopathic too, that’s possible, but he’s highly intelligent and he’s worked out that the best way forward for him is by putting his brains to legitimate use.’ I frowned. ‘There’s another saving grace too; he’s on my radar, and he knows it.’

  I drove Martin back to Fettes. There were no reports of progress from anyone, so I stood him, and McGuire, down for the rest of the day, told the rest of the team to reach me on my mobile if anything did come up, then headed for the Sheraton.

  It took me a while to find a parking space, but eventually I nailed one, opposite the Lyceum Theatre. I was ten minutes late when I passed through the Festival Square entrance doors and into the hotel. I kept walking, through the foyer and into the lobby area. It was busy; I couldn’t see an unoccupied table, but I could work out why Mia had been so confident that she wouldn’t be recognised. The Saturday customers were almost exclusively female, not her fans, though, but their affluent mothers. I looked around for her, and spotted her at a table in the furthest corner. She was wearing a sleeveless brown dress, and her arms and legs showed off a golden tan.

  I apologised for my lateness. ‘Bloody Edinburgh,’ I muttered, as I sat. ‘The Castle Terrace car park was full so I had to cruise for a bit.’

  She smiled, and I couldn’t help noticing, once again, how attractive she was. ‘I thought,’ she chuckled, ‘that policemen had special signs they could leave on their cars.’

  ‘Like “Doctor on call”, you mean? We can do it in an exceptional policing situation, but we’d draw complaints from Traffic if we tried it on. Plus there’s a further consideration. There are wee neds out there, wherever you turn, and most cars work best with all four tyres inflated.’

  ‘Neds? Is that not a Glasgow word?’

  ‘I’m betraying my roots,’ I admitted, ‘but the type is universal.’

  A quick frown knitted her brow. ‘Don’t I know it. My late brothers were two classics.’

  ‘Maybe so, but it’s not a capital offence. Most of them can be cured by having their arses kicked hard enough by the right bloke.’

  ‘That wasn’t an option in their case, not for offshoots of the Spreckley family. Christ,’ she exclaimed, bitterly, ‘were those boys ever touched by Fate.’

  ‘You’ve broken free. How did you escape?’

  Before she could answer, a waitress appeared by my side, pad in hand. I hadn’t looked at the menu, but when Mia ordered a club sandwich and coffee, I told her to bring that twice.

  ‘Initially,’ she said, when we were alone again, ‘by keeping my head down, staying apart from the nonsense and working hard at school. I didn’t have a problem childhood, I won’t say that. I was older than my brothers, so I had a bit of authority over them, and rough as the neighbourhood is I was never bothered by anyone because I was Gavin Spreckley’s niece. Uncle Gavin was a real animal. Uncle Billy was weak, always a follower, never a leader, but Gavin, oh, he thought he was Al Capone. He made my flesh creep, but he was useful in that way . . . until he got Ryan into even bigger trouble than usual and they both disappeared.’

  ‘Or most of them did.’ The comment escaped; it slipped past the censor sensor in my brain, and was out there before I could stop it. ‘God, Mia, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mr Skinner,’ she assured me. ‘I’m not the sensitive kind. It was true, anyway. When that happened, it was the end of it for me. I was sixteen by that time, and I could make my own choices, so I went to live with my dad.’

  ‘I thought he was long gone,’ I said.

  ‘He was,’ she replied, ‘but not forgotten. He kept in touch with me, sent me money, and presents and such. Only me, though, not the boys, and he never spoke to my mother.’

  ‘Why did he leave?’ I asked as our sandwiches and coffee arrived. They must have been lined up in the servery, ready made.

  ‘He and Uncle Gavin had a big bust-up when I was about six. I learned all the details about ten years later. Dad found out that Gavin and Billy were involved with people who were dealing drugs. Not long after that, Dad was beaten up himself, by a gang of men he didn’t recognise. He wound up in hospital and when he was there, Mum went to see him with a message from Gavin, that if he didn’t clear off, next time they’d kill him.’

  I poured the coffee, and then looked up, catching her eye. ‘Are you sure the message was from Gavin?’

  ‘Are you trying to suggest that it might have been from Mum herself?’

  ‘I’m not saying that.’

  ‘It’s possible. She wasn’t upset when he left, that’s for sure. We had quite a succession of “uncles” after he’d gone.’

  ‘Where did he go?’

  ‘Peterhead. He moved up there, and sailed out of there. He worked on the trawlers.’

  ‘Yes, I knew that.’

  She smiled again, but there was a wry sadness in it. ‘So the police have always taken an interest in our family, have they?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ I admitted. ‘But it has drawn itself to our attention over the years. What about you, though? How did you get where you are?’

  ‘More by luck than judgement,’ she replied. ‘I stayed on at school in Peterhead and got my Highers, then went to Sunderland University and did a degree in broadcast journalism. I brought
it back to Peterhead and got a job in the newsroom in a radio station in Aberdeen. I might have stayed there, but my dad died.’ She stopped, and was silent for a while.

  ‘How?’ I asked her, quietly.

  ‘His job. He was washed overboard, and lost, about three years ago. So was I for a bit; lost, that is. I had nobody else up north, so I looked around and found myself a news job with the station in Stirling. I was doing okay, liking it, then one day they had a crisis. One of the presenters was injured in a car accident on the way to work, I was on duty, and I was told to fill in for him. Because I was known as a reporter, they asked me to choose another name. I said “Mia Sparkles”, because believe it or not, “Sparkles” was what my dad used to call my mum. I turned out to be good at it; the girl who was injured was going to be off long-term, they wanted a female replacement, so they gave me a longer run. The audience figures went up. That’s what counts, start to finish, so I wound up with a career change. When Airburst won the new licence, they asked me if I would join to present a show called “School’s Out”, and . . . here I am.’