Bob Skiinner 21 Grievous Angel

by Quintin Jardine

  I felt the hot air escaping from my balloon, fast, but did my best to keep my dignity. ‘Work? What does he do, apart from being a heavy?’

  ‘He’s a taxi driver. Self-employed. He has a small office in North Shields; he runs a few cabs out of there.’

  ‘Does he have a wife?’ I asked.

  Fred nodded. ‘Yes. She wasn’t cooperative, at first, not until our Geordie colleagues threatened to arrest her for obstruction and hand her kids to social services. A bluff, but she fell for it. Eventually she admitted that he went out late on Saturday night and hasn’t been home since.’

  ‘Did NCIS come up with anything on him?’

  ‘Oh yes. Two convictions for actual bodily harm, one for GBH, several arrests but charges dropped for lack of evidence. He’s said to work for the Newcastle big boss, a man called Winston Church . . . no hill, just Church. His known associates locally are Barton Leonard and Warren Shackleton who works for him in the taxi firm. Leonard used to, until he was given a nice room to himself in Durham jail, for being the getaway driver in an armed robbery.’

  ‘I take it . . .’

  ‘Yes. The Geordies went looking for Shackleton too; he wasn’t at home either, and he’s been missing for about the same length of time as Milburn.’

  ‘Okay. Good shout, Fred.’ I was left feeling embarrassed by my telly’tec episode. ‘Sorry I went off at you, Jeff. There was no cause for it. Do something else for me, please. Ask NCIS to go back into their computer and ask it if there are any known links between this man Church and Tony Manson. He says that there aren’t, and I doubt if he would deny something that he knew we could confirm, but let’s check it anyway. I’m not saying he’d admit it either, but he wouldn’t let me catch him in a flat-out lie.’

  ‘Andy said that Manson couldn’t help you,’ Leggat remarked.

  ‘He didn’t tell us where to look, but the mere fact that he was worried enough to contact a private security firm and hire a couple of ex-squaddies, that tells me he thinks he’s under threat from someone.’ I headed for my office, motioning the DI to follow. ‘Where have we got in this investigation, Fred?’ I asked as he closed the door.

  ‘Newcastle,’ he replied, ‘and that’s it.’

  ‘Manson did make a good point,’ I told him. ‘How did these guys get hold of Marlon, so quietly that we haven’t picked up a trace of it? And where did they pick him up?’

  ‘Could he have arranged to meet them?’ he wondered.

  ‘It’s a thought. What’s the last sighting of him?’

  Leggat frowned, and scratched his head. ‘When he left his mother’s house last Tuesday?’

  ‘No, Bella said he came home after that, and then went out again. She didn’t know where, though. Pub, probably. Where did he drink?’

  ‘Search me, Bob.’

  ‘Sorry, Fred, I was talking to myself there. But there’s somebody who might be able to tell us.’ I called Bella Watson’s mobile from my desk phone; she answered quickly, as if she’d been expecting a call. ‘Do you still have your babysitter?’ I asked.

  ‘Aye,’ she grunted.

  ‘Then put him on.’ I waited for the giant. ‘Lennie,’ I said, ‘did you see much of Marlon, in the course of business?’

  ‘We were in touch,’ he replied. ‘And, of course, he drank in the Vaults.’

  ‘That’s what I was hoping you’d say. When did you see him last?’

  ‘Monday. He was in on Monday.’

  ‘Do you remember anything about him? Was he nervous in any way?’

  ‘No.’ He paused. ‘Hey, wait a minute, he was in on Tuesday, late afternoon. He brought a licence renewal application for the pub that had come in the boss’s morning mail.’

  ‘But not in the evening?’

  ‘No. In fact as he was leaving I heard one of the barmen say to him, “See you later.” But Marlon said no, that he wouldn’t be in. He said he’d somewhere else to go . . . and he was smiling when he said it, as if it was a hot date.’

  ‘It sure was, Lennie. Thanks.’ I hung up. ‘Progress,’ I told Leggat. ‘It looks as if Watson went to meet these guys, knowingly or not. How was that meeting arranged, I wonder?’

  I picked up the phone again. Manson had two lines in the big house. One was in the directory; the other wasn’t, but it was in my personal collection. I looked it out and dialled it.

  ‘How the fuck did you get this number?’ he growled, when he realised that I was his mystery caller.

  ‘Please, Tony. Did you really think I wouldn’t have it?’

  ‘You lot aren’t listening in, are you? I’ll sue if you are.’

  ‘No, we’re not,’ I told him, truthfully. ‘We’d need a warrant for that. I can’t speak for MI5, of course; they’re taking an interest in organised crime these days.’ I added that out of pure devilment. ‘I need to know something. Did Marlon Watson have a mobile phone?’

  There was a silence, as if he was considering whether to give me the time of day. He must have decided that he had nothing to lose by it. ‘Aye, he had one. I gave it to him so I could reach him any time I needed him.’

  ‘Contract, or pay and go?’ Silly question, Skinner, I told myself. The phone would be chucked away every time its credit expired and replaced with a new one, new number. Standard practice in the hidden world, even then.

  ‘What do you think?’ Manson chuckled. I hung up on him.

  Leggat was looking at me, waiting for the outcome. I nodded. No more was needed. ‘I’ll check with the mortuary,’ he said. ‘It should be among his possessions.’

  ‘It should,’ I agreed, ‘so why do I have a feeling that it won’t be?’

  It took him less than five minutes to confirm that my hunch had been spot on.

  ‘Maybe Milburn will still have it on him, when they find him,’ he suggested.

  ‘He might, if he’s a hoarder, but the SIM card will probably be ashes by now, and that’s where all the call information would have been.’

  Fred’s scepticism showed in his face. ‘Does that not strike you as pretty thorough for somebody whose crime file doesn’t mark him out as a thinker?’

  ‘It does, but let’s wait till we have him in our custody. How did you leave that with Newcastle?’

  ‘They’re checking all likely haunts, plus the passenger manifests of all recent flights and ferries out of the city. They’re going to give us a progress report at five, if they haven’t found him before then.’

  ‘Meanwhile we just sit on our hands. I’m bloody useless at that.’ Through my door’s glass panel, I saw Jeff Adam approach. I waved him in, keen to mend a broken fence.

  ‘NCIS do not have any record of connection between Winston Church and Tony Manson,’ he reported, ‘directly or indirectly. They don’t have any shared associates. Church doesn’t have any known links to Scotland at all. Indeed the intelligence is that he has enough on his hands just keeping control of his own territory without looking to move in on anyone else’s. He’s getting on, and some of his younger associates are reckoned to be hungry. For example, the job that the man Leonard’s doing time for was a robbery of a pub in Durham that’s owned by his brother-in-law.’

  That was interesting. ‘So it’s possible that Milburn and Shackleton . . . let’s assume that he’s the second man . . . were operating independently of Church?’

  ‘That could be,’ Adam said. ‘Nature abhors a vacuum.’

  I laughed. ‘Hell, Jeff, that’s a bit profound. I know it’s still a while to five o’clock but go and rattle Newcastle’s cage for me.’

  ‘Meanwhile,’ I murmured as he and Leggat left, ‘what about the other?’ Of course, as soon as I turned my attention to the ‘gay blade’ murders, I thought of Alison, and that made me think of Mia. If I’d known that Milburn and his mate hadn’t even been found, far less on their way into my tender hands, I might not have left her place, and . . .

  Distance had lent me a bit of objectivity, but the old saw about enchantment was working as well. I wanted Mia, no q
uestion; she filled me with an excitement that I’d forgotten. But Alison: she meant a lot to me, safety, security, friendship, comfort, plus we were there already, a couple of sorts, even if it was only part-time. ‘She isn’t Bella Watson’s daughter either,’ I whispered, then cast the thought aside, as quickly as it had appeared in my mind. I relived that kiss, and I felt myself tingling all over again. Yes, I wanted the woman, but did I have the bottle to take her, and to live with whatever consequences that brought?

  I jumped when the phone rang. I snatched it up, barked, ‘Skinner,’ and felt my face flush as soon as I heard Alison’s voice.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, cautiously. ‘Are you busy with something?’

  Nothing you’d want to hear, I thought. ‘No, sorry, I was miles away.’ Indeed, I’d been at Gleneagles, mentally. ‘Whassup? Where are you?’

  ‘I’m at the mortuary. Professor Hutchinson is just finishing the post-mortem on Albie McCann. I thought it might be a good idea if he went straight on and did Archie Weir’s and he’s agreed.’

  ‘That’s an excellent idea.’ But it would be tough on her; sitting in on two autopsies, back to back, so to speak. ‘Do you want me to come up?’ I asked. I had an ulterior motive; if wee Joe Hutchinson’s workplace didn’t stop me thinking about peeling Mia Sparkles like a grape, nothing would.

  ‘That would be good,’ she admitted. ‘We still don’t have absolute confirmation that they were both killed by the same man, and I’d welcome your input.’

  ‘Plus you’d like me to hold your hand.’

  ‘No!’ she snapped, then hesitated. ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Hey,’ I told her, ‘if I’d been through the first one, I’d be calling you for company. Besides, depending on what Joe finds, it might be useful for both of us to be there.’

  I picked up my phone and my car keys and stepped into the outer office. I told Fred Leggat where I was bound, and confirmed with Jeff Adam that the Geordies had yet to turn up any trace of Glenn Milburn and his mate, then headed for the door.

  I was fitting my seat belt when my mobile sounded. I fished it out awkwardly from my jacket pocket. ‘Hi,’ Mia said, quietly, as I connected.

  ‘Hi yourself,’ I replied. ‘Shouldn’t you be getting ready to entertain my daughter and her peer group?’

  ‘I am. I’m in my studio now, getting my playlist and ads sorted, but before I go on air I wanted to talk to you again. That dinner we discussed . . . can we skip it?’

  What? In that first instant, I managed to feel both disappointed and relieved at the same time. ‘Sure,’ I murmured, slowly. ‘If that’s what you want, no harm done, and maybe I’ll see you around.’

  She chuckled, huskily. ‘I’d never have taken you for someone with low self-esteem where women are concerned. I didn’t mean that I didn’t want to see you again. The opposite, in fact. Can you make it back to my place tonight, once my show’s finished?’

  I felt a trembling in the pit of my stomach. Nerves? Jesus Christ! ‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure. Thing is, I’ve got a work commitment that could go on for a while. Plus, it’s a bit late to spring a sleepover on Daisy.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  I sighed, audibly, and wondered what she’d read into that. ‘Mia, don’t you want to take time to think about this?’

  ‘I have done. I’ve been thinking about nothing else since you left. Tomorrow?’

  Low self-esteem, no willpower. ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Seven thirty?’

  ‘Seven thirty.’

  ‘Lovely. By the way, I’m not on the pill.’

  Eleven

  ‘Are you on the pill?’

  ‘Fuck me, Bob,’ Alison exclaimed; appropriately. ‘It’s a bit late to ask me. What brought that on?’

  I shrugged. ‘A moment of panic?’

  ‘Of course I am. Do you think I’d have let you go bareback otherwise?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  She laughed. ‘Bloody hell! You suppose?’

  Fortunately there was nobody close to us in the autopsy room, and our exchange was muffled by our surgical masks. Nevertheless Professor Hutchinson frowned at us from the other side of the examination table. ‘Pay attention in class, you two,’ he said. He tapped the microphone above his head; it was there to pick up his commentary as he worked. ‘And remember, this thing is extremely sensitive.’

  I hoped we wouldn’t have to ask him to edit the tape.

  ‘Since you’ve just joined us, Detective Superintendent Skinner,’ he continued . . . a little archly, I thought, ‘I’ll recap what I told DI Higgins following the examination of the body of Albert McCann. The young man was in excellent physical health, although somewhat intoxicated at the time of his demise; he had recently consumed at least four pints of beer, India Pale Ale from its colour and odour, none of which ever made the journey to Seafield. My assistant and I found that death was due to a single upward stab wound that skewered the heart, piercing both chambers. The indication is that the attacker was either male, or an exceptionally strong woman, and right-handed.’

  ‘We know that,’ Alison volunteered, ‘from a statement by a surviving witness. And he says it was a man.’

  He glowered at her. Joe didn’t like to be interrupted while in full flow. ‘There were twelve other wounds in total,’ he continued, ‘but we believe that these were all inflicted post mortem, and that the massive wound I have described was the first, and almost instantly fatal. The attack on this man was of the sort that usually attracts the adjective “frenzied” in the popular press. At the very least anyone who continued to attack what would have been a fairly obviously dead body with such force can be described as “determined”. Regrettably, I have seen in my career many victims with injuries similar to those of Mr McCann. Similar . . .’ he repeated, and his eyes twinkled, telling me that he’d been leading up to a major moment . . . ‘but not identical. There is a shape, a pattern, to these wounds that I haven’t seen too often before. The weapon that inflicted them was razor-sharp in its tip and on both sides of the blade, but what makes it different is its shape. It’s broader than the norm, although to be honest the range of objects that people stick into other people seems to be expanding all the time these days.’

  He stopped and looked at me. ‘Alison tells me that you believe that McCann and Mr Weir here are both victims of the same man. A little patience on your part, and I may be able to advance that theory, or knock it down.’

  ‘We await your findings, Joe,’ I told him, ‘enthralled.’

  He went to work, and I thought about something other than what I was going to have for dinner.

  ‘How are you getting on with Marlon?’ Alison asked, sotto voce, as we looked on.

  ‘We’ve got a suspect, probably two,’ I murmured.

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘It will be when Northumbria CID manage to find them.’

  ‘Are you sure they’re your men?’

  ‘If we’re lucky we might have a witness to place them with Watson.’ Before I’d left, I’d told Mario McGuire to take the photos of Milburn and Shackleton that had been faxed from Newcastle and show them to his pub manager pal. An identification under those circumstances might not stand up to heavy cross-examination by a defence brief, but it would be enough to let us charge them and hold them on remand.

  ‘Good luck.’ She looked at me. ‘Bob, is something bothering you? Something you’re keeping from me?’

  I found it difficult to return her gaze. ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘I don’t know, exactly, but last night, when I arrived at your place, I thought you were preoccupied.’

  If it hadn’t been for the mask, my sigh of relief might have been audible. ‘I was,’ I told her. ‘I didn’t want to ruin your night with it, that was all. It was my father-in-law’s visit.’ I led her across to the furthest corner of the room and told her why Thornton had come to see us.

  When I was finished, she took my arm, and hugged it. ‘Oh Bob,’ she sighed, ‘that�
�s awful. The poor chap.’

  ‘There’s more,’ I said. ‘I’m in a real dilemma.’ I explained Thornie’s view about keeping it from Alex until it was all over. ‘I agreed,’ I added, ‘but now I’m not so sure.’

  ‘Nor should you be,’ she said, firmly. ‘You don’t have the right to do that. Neither does her grandfather.’

  ‘But Ali, love, she’s so young,’ I protested.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Bob,’ she spluttered behind her mask. ‘Emotionally, she’s older than you are. Do you think she isn’t ready to deal with death? Is that it? The girl lost her mother when she was barely school age. Yet now she’s one of the best adjusted, most mature thirteen-year-olds that I’ve ever met. She’s faced her tragedy and she’s come to terms with it . . . which, perhaps, is more than you have.’ Her forehead was wrinkled with concern as she spoke. She really was a good woman, better than I’d appreciated, and better than I deserved; suddenly a randy night with Mia Sparkles seemed less of an imperative. ‘You’re very close to him, aren’t you?’ she said.