I rang her back, and explained where I was, and why. ‘I see,’ she said. ‘In that case this can wait till tomorrow.’
‘How are you getting along with linking Weir and McCann?’ I asked her.
‘I haven’t,’ she replied, ‘not yet at any rate. But something’s come up in the course of it, something curious. I’d like you to see it.’
‘What is it?’
‘Probably nothing, but it struck me as odd. I’d rather you saw it for yourself. If you call me tomorrow morning, or whenever you get back, I’ll come up to Fettes and show you.’
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I will do . . . whenever that is.’
I slipped the phone back into my pocket. ‘Business back home,’ I explained to McFaul. ‘I’ve been in my new job for five days and I’m running two major investigations.’
‘Getting anywhere with either of them?’
I glanced at him. ‘Are you familiar with the topography of Shit Creek?’
‘Been there many times, Superintendent. No paddle, I take it?’
‘Right now, your Prime Minister pal is my last hope. That’s why I’m keen to see him.’
‘Let’s hope he can help you,’ the DI said. ‘But he’s likely to be more of a clutched-at straw. He’s never incriminated himself before, and I don’t see him starting now. What do you hope to get out of him, supposing he is shocked into talking?’
‘A name. He’s got one old Edinburgh connection in his past that I know of, a man no longer with us. I’d like to know if there’s another, or if I’m dealing with someone from out of town.’
‘That’s if he had anything to do with Milburn and Shack being set on your murder victim.’
‘Indeed,’ I conceded, ‘but that past acquaintance of his . . . I don’t know why, but it’s making me twitch.’
‘One thing I can tell you,’ McFaul offered. ‘Those two didn’t go after the man on their own account. They weren’t self-starters.’
We skirted Newcastle from the tunnel and joined the A1, then headed north. The Morpeth turn-off came up fairly quickly. I glanced in the wing mirror and saw Martin and DS Easton right on our tail. My driver seemed to know exactly where he was headed; I wondered how many times he’d stood on Church’s doorstep, and whether they’d ever achieved anything. Very little, I guessed, for the sod was still at liberty, like Manson, Perry Holmes, Jackie Charles and a few others like them on my territory, men with the brains to know their way around and through the criminal law that they broke for a living.
Two or three tight turns later, McFaul turned into a street called the Crescent, and pulled up in front of a driveway with blue wooden gates, blocking it. The house beyond was detached, a mock-Tudor pile in the midst of a street of stone Victorian villas. If a dwelling can seem embarrassed by its surroundings, that one did. It was set back off the road. I looked for a CCTV camera, or any other obvious security; I saw none, but I hadn’t at Holmes’s place either, so what did that prove?
There was a door set in the blue gate to the right, with a recessed brass ring handle. The DI turned it, and it opened. Yes, he had been there before. We followed him inside, on to a red gravel road that approached the house. It crunched, loudly, under our feet as we walked, a pretty effective intruder alarm. There was a double garage on the left; its up-and-over door was open, revealing a blue, round-bodied Rover coupé that looked as clean as it had been in the showroom, thirty years before, if the number plate was a guide. My dad had owned several when I was a kid. Beside it sat a much newer red Rover Metro, a tatty little shit bucket. For me, it showed the depths to which the marque had sunk, but at least Church had brand loyalty. ‘Is that the wife’s car?’ I asked.
‘No,’ DS Easton replied. ‘That’s Winston’s; his wife died ten years ago. He’s lived alone ever since.’
‘Any family?’
‘Yes. One son. He’s a brain surgeon in Auckland, New Zealand. That’s as far away as he could get from his father.’
McFaul had reached the pergola that covered a paved entrance area. There was a brass plate in the middle of the front door, with a button at its centre. He pushed it . . . and the door swung open. ‘Hello,’ he whispered, frowning. ‘What’s up here? That’s always locked.’ He leaned into the entrance hall. ‘Mr Church!’ he shouted. ‘Winston! It’s the police, CID. We need to talk to you.’
I have a keen sense of smell in any circumstances, but for some things I’m as good as any sniffer dog. I put a hand on the DI’s shoulder. ‘You’re wasting your time,’ I told him. ‘You won’t get a response.’
‘But his cars are both here,’ he replied, ‘and the only taxi he ever uses is Milburn’s.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’ I stepped past him, into the house. I didn’t have to follow my nose for long, no further than a big dining kitchen at the back of the house. Winston Church . . . I assumed that it had been him . . . was at home but he was in no condition to receive visitors. Outside, the daylight was fading, but I could still see what lay before me. He was sprawled, on his back, across a big farmhouse-style table, arms and legs hanging over the sides, bare feet clear of the floor. He’d been wearing a dressing gown and pyjamas when he died, no protection against a savage attack. He’d been gutted, ripped open, and his entrails had spilled out of a great diagonal tear that ran across his abdomen. As I stared at him I felt as if I was back in Joe Hutchinson’s workplace, after the pathologist had finished his examination. I inched forward, but not too far; I didn’t want to contaminate the place, nor did I want to get blood on my shoes. There was a slash across the dead man’s face, from his right cheek, across his nose and his left eye to his eyebrow. His right hand was missing the third and little fingers. I looked around, quickly. There was a half-glazed door opening on to the back garden. It lay ajar and I noticed that one of its astragal panels had been smashed.
I realised that I was holding my breath, and let it out in a great exhalation. As I did so, I became aware of Ciaran McFaul beside me, and heard him moan softly. I glanced behind me; Easton and Martin were still in the hall, their view blocked by our bodies.
‘Let’s all back out of here,’ I said quietly. I turned, drawing the DI with me, and heard a small squeal escape Easton as she saw what was in the kitchen. Not your everyday crime scene, even in Newcastle. ‘Come on,’ I ordered. ‘Everybody, all the way outside.’ I swept them before me, through the hall, back under the pergola.
By that time, McFaul had recovered himself, so I didn’t presume to tell him what he should do. It wouldn’t have been necessary anyway. He tossed his car keys to Easton, instructing her to call in an incident report, and ask for forensic, CID and uniform support, then he turned to me. ‘What did you see?’ he asked.
‘The attacker broke in through the back door, and went out through the front, leaving it open behind him. Your SOCOs will probably find a blood trail to the door. He couldn’t have done that without stepping in it and being splashed. Surmise: Church may have been in bed and heard the glass break or . . .’
‘He was watching a video,’ Martin interposed. ‘I took a quick look in the living room while you were heading for the kitchen. The telly’s on, and the player’s on pause. Porno,’ he added.
‘One of his remaining business interests,’ the DI said. ‘I’m thinking the same man as the Seagull. Are you?’
‘Absolutely,’ I replied. ‘Whoever hired them for the Edinburgh job isn’t leaving any traces behind. This was our only lead and it’s been well and truly closed off.’
‘Was he killed before or after the South Shields pair, d’you reckon?’
‘He wasn’t worried about being covered in blood, so I reckon it had to be after. He broke in here, so he wasn’t expected this time.’
‘But why, sir?’
Martin’s question took me by surprise. ‘What do you mean?’ I challenged.
‘Isn’t it a bit extreme?’ he asked. ‘They were hired hands, supplied by Church. Okay, but why kill them all?’
‘Somebody’s b
eing super-cautious.’
‘Or . . . you’re looking at this from the wrong angle?’
‘You what?’ I snapped, then realised what he was getting at. ‘Shit!’ I exclaimed. ‘I told Tony Manson we were looking in Newcastle. I even mentioned Milburn by name. But no, Andy, no fucking chance. Manson’s more subtle than that. Mind you, if Bella was leaning on him . . . Shit, shit, shit!’ Out of nowhere, I could see my fast-tracked career about to be derailed. I turned to McFaul. ‘Ciaran, DC Martin might be pushing his youthful luck here, or he may have a point. There’s an outside possibility at our end that I’ll need to look into, if only to eliminate him. I’ll get back to you when I’ve done it.’
‘Okay.’ He looked up at me. ‘This place is going to be overrun in a minute, and very soon after that my boss is going to arrive. If he finds you two here . . . well, he’s a bit of a stickler and he might want to know why two Scottish officers were active on his patch. If you’re not here, there’s no reason why I should tell him. Your choice.’
I thought about it. ‘The book says we should give your SOCOs our prints for elimination,’ I pointed out.
‘Did you touch anything in there?’
‘I don’t believe I did. DC Martin, how about you?’
‘I was careful not to, boss.’
I laughed. ‘Boy, if you don’t stop being perfect you’re going to make a lot of enemies. Come on, Ciaran’s right. We’re out of here.’ I shook McFaul’s hand. ‘Thanks, Inspector; I’ll be in touch. You keep me in your loop as well, okay?’
‘Will do.’
We cleared the exit from the Crescent just as the first of the Northumbria cars arrived. ‘By the way, Andy,’ I said as we headed for the A1, ‘you can be as clever as you like and you won’t ever make an enemy of me. But don’t ever put me on the spot again in front of another officer, or you will.’
He nodded. ‘Point taken, boss. I’m sorry.’
In truth I was far more angry with myself than him. I had told Manson far too much, in the hope that if he had any ideas, he would share them. I’d thought that I knew him; if I’d been wrong, I could have signed three death warrants. Either way, it was a big mistake, reckless. The saving grace was that Martin had been there as witness to the knowledge that I had given the gangster, and that of itself would have been a constraint on him. I might have let the business lie quiet, undisturbed, but by mentioning it in front of McFaul, my young DC pal had taken that option away from me, and that was his real transgression.
Suddenly, without warning, my mind was dragged back to that kitchen. I’d hit my ‘detachment’ button before I walked in there, for I knew it was going to be bad. That normally worked, but it wasn’t a hundred per cent effective.
The things you see: the mind has ways of managing them. If you’re properly professional, and experienced, it allows you to take the humanity out of the situation, and to accept the inanimate as what it is. In extreme cases, it will block out the memory altogether. But every so often, in my case at any rate, even back then when I was at my most battle-hardened, I’d see something that would return to me later, and sneak under my emotional guard. For example, something like Winston Church, his face cut almost in two, half-naked and eviscerated on his kitchen table, severed fingers in the pool of blood beneath him. I wondered how long it had taken him to die, and at the thought of it my stomach started to heave.
I looked ahead and saw in the headlights, for darkness had fallen completely by that time, that we were approaching a parking place. ‘Pull over, Andy,’ I said. He did, I jerked open the door and swung myself out of his awkward little bastard of a car, gulping in lungfuls of cool night air, retching violently, on an empty stomach with nothing to bring up but a little bile.
The spasms took a little while to subside, but they did. My face was covered in a cold sweat, and I was shaking slightly, but I was back in control. Martin had stayed in the car, discreetly. I wasn’t ready to get back in myself; instead, I took my phone from my pocket and pressed the ‘menu’ key. I found Mia’s number on the illuminated keyboard and called her. ‘Hi,’ she murmured, and at once I felt warmer. ‘Twenty to eleven. The light’s still on and I’m still awake. Are you close?’
‘I’m the best part of two hours away.’
‘But are you coming?’
I considered my options. Go home to an empty house. Crash out in the office. Call Alison and probably cry on her shoulder, since she would understand why. Go to Mira’s starving, exhausted and shell-shocked, and let her see me at my worst. Why the hell not? I decided. As good a way to start as any.
Martin made good time, but even at that, it was almost twelve thirty by the time I arrived, after I’d picked up the Discovery from Fettes. The gate in the garden wall creaked, a curtain twitched, and before I could ring the bell, the door opened and she pulled me inside by the lapels of my jacket. She closed it again, with her foot, put her arms around my neck and kissed me. Fortunately, I’d refuelled on Lucozade and sandwiches from a filling station just short of Belford, and swallowed an entire box of Tic Tacs afterwards, otherwise God knows how I’d have tasted.
She looked up at me as we broke off. ‘Poor man,’ she murmured. ‘Have you had a rough night?’
I hugged her again and let myself relax against her body, feeling hours of tension leave me, and realising that she was wearing a silk robe and nothing else. ‘The strangest of the strange,’ I murmured. ‘The queerest of the queer.’
‘Hey, I played that this afternoon,’ she whispered. I knew that; I’d heard her. ‘Remember how it ends? “You can touch me if you want.” Well, do you?’
I let her lead me into her bedroom. It was lit by at least a dozen candles. The silk whispered as it fell to the floor, and her bare skin seemed to shimmer in the flickering light as she slipped my jacket from my shoulders. When I was naked too, she stood back and appraised my body, running her fingers over my pectorals, my abdominals, and then down. ‘How old are you?’ she asked.
‘Thirty-six, for a few weeks more.’
‘You’re in pretty good shape,’ she conceded, ‘for an old guy . . . although that shape is changing by the second.’
She had found the condoms in my jacket. I let her put one on me, and then I let her do everything else too, lying on my back, looking up at her as she straddled me and moved, very, very slowly, smiling, until she stopped smiling and began to moan, a sound that grew in intensity until it became a howl of pure pleasure, tailing off and ending in a long soft sigh.
‘Ooooh,’ she whispered in my ear as she stretched her body out along the length of mine. ‘It’s been a while, Bob, since I’ve been with someone properly; it’s been a while.’
I couldn’t say the same, so I said nothing. Instead, I rolled over, easing her on to her side.
‘Is that better?’ she murmured, as I disposed of the evidence. ‘I could see the pain in your eyes when you came in. Was it bad where you were?’
‘Mmm,’ I admitted. ‘I went down there to a double homicide; it turned into three, and the last one . . . fuck! You know, I’ve spent the last five days looking at dead people. Even in the job I do, that’s a hell of a lot.’ And then I recalled something that had gone out of my mind entirely, a highly relevant fact. ‘But if you want the good news,’ I continued, ‘the three tonight were the ones who killed your brother.’
As soon as I’d spoken, it was as if the good imp had jumped on to my shoulder and said, ‘What the hell did you tell her that for? You don’t mix personal and professional, Skinner.’ But the bad imp didn’t hang about; he was straight in there, shoving him off.
She sat up, her eyes wide. ‘Really?’ she exclaimed. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Oh yes, I’m certain. Two did it, the third was involved.’
She blinked, and shook her head as if she was trying to clear it. ‘That’s incredible,’ she gasped. ‘So . . . so . . . so who killed them?’
‘Don’t ask me that, love.’
‘But you must have an idea. Please, Bob.�
��
I sighed. The waters were lapping around my chin and rising. ‘Your mother’s fancy man has to be a possibility, although I don’t believe that. If not him, then unless they were involved in something else, something on Tyneside that the cops there know nothing about, then it has to be the person who hired them. But we do not have one clue who that is, and the trail is freezing cold.’
‘It was probably my mum,’ she whispered.
That was a possibility that had crossed my mind. I’d set it aside. Even if I was wrong and Bella Watson did have the stuff to take out two big thugs, alone and unaided, she’d been looked after by Lennie Plenderleith over the weekend, and as far as I knew she still was. Plus she wouldn’t have had the faintest idea of where to find them . . . any more than would Manson, I supposed.
‘Enough,’ I said. ‘Forget about that, Mia. It’s my other life and it doesn’t belong here. By the way, Alex says thanks for the CD. You’re right; those girls will do well for themselves, until the next craze comes along.’
Bob Skiinner 21 Grievous Angel Page 25
