Murmuring the Judges

16

‘You know, Chief Superintendent,’ said Skinner lazily, looking along the ordered street, ‘the folk who believe that biggest is always best should be taken round places like Craigmillar and Pilton then brought here.

‘For it seems to me that in housing terms, the opposite is always true. When I was a wee boy, I remember big council housing estates going up in my home town, that were half demolished before I was forty.

‘Even back in the sixties, any copper could have told the planners about the link between monolithic housing, crime and social deprivation, yet they still went on building huge, unmanageable urban concentration camps.

‘Not like this though.’

Behind the wheel of his Mondeo, Martin grunted agreement. ‘Not a bit. These houses must be sixty years old, yet look at them.’ Before them, the rows of semi-detached Snowcem-clad villas of Garston Avenue stretched in a gentle curve, each set in a garden, the size of which would have made a contemporary speculative builder salivate as he pictured the number of houses it could accommodate. They were uniform in design, yet no longer in finish, as the varied designs of replacement doors and windows showed which of the former municipal houses were now in occupier-ownership.

Cars stood in most of the driveways, and more were parked down one side of the narrow street.

‘What’s Hannah Bennett’s number?’ Skinner asked.

‘Seventeen.’

‘Let’s walk up, then.’

They left the Mondeo parked at the entrance to the avenue and strolled casually along the pavement, counting off the numbers as they walked. The morning sun was risen and they felt its warmth on their faces, yet it was still only four minutes past eight a.m., and on a Saturday morning there was no one else to be seen.

‘This is it,’ said Martin, pointing to the next house on their right. ‘Seventeen.’

There were two cars in the driveway, one a Ford Sierra Cosworth, the other a Vauxhall Corsa which, from its registration number, was less than two years old. ‘Decent motors,’ the DCC commented. ‘What do they do, Bennett and his sister?’

‘She works for the council, on the admin. side of the social work department. Before he was nicked, Nathan was a civil servant.’

‘Eh?’

‘No kidding. He was an EO or something, in the new Scottish Office building down in Leith Docks. He was taken on after he left the army.’ He was amused by Skinner’s surprise. ‘I agree; not the usual background for a bank robber. His job drives yet another nail in the coffin of his defence. He was on flexi-time; the silly bugger clocked out two hours before the robbery.’

The detectives stopped at the foot of the sloping driveway of number seventeen. The lawn in front of the house was immaculately groomed, and the flower-beds around it were neatly weeded, with a mixture of bedding plants in flower.

Skinner looked up at the house. ‘No curtains pulled. She must be up, unless her bedroom’s at the back. Let’s go.’

They walked up the path, dressed in casual clothing, Skinner in slacks and open-necked shirt, Martin in his trademark jeans and leather bomber jacket. A single wide concrete step was set before the white, glass-panelled front door. The DCS stepped up and rang the brass-studded bell, hearing it sound clearly inside the house.

They waited on the step, looking for signs of movement behind the glass, listening for sounds. Eventually, impatiently, Skinner reached out and pressed the bell once more; but still they stood, with only birdsong to break the silence.

‘Don’t tell me she’s gone out already,’ the DCC growled.

‘The two cars are still here,’ Martin pointed out. ‘Maybe she’s got a bidey-in we didn’t know about, and they’re upstairs ignoring the bell.’

‘Could be. It’s only daft bastards like us that are up at this time on a Saturday. Come on, let’s go round and give the back door a thump.’

He led the way past the black Sierra, past the garage, and through a tall latched gate, both of them wooden and brown-stained. The gate was warped and the policeman had to push hard to force it open. The garden to the rear was as neat as that to the front. Four green-painted clothes poles stood on the rear lawn, linked by a rope which formed a perfect square. Beyond, a cultivated area was planted with a mixture of vegetables, while behind the garage stood tall rows of raspberry bushes. On all three sides, the boundaries were marked by high fir trees, planted close together, thicker than any hedge, giving the area almost total seclusion.

‘Must be the sister who’s the gardener,’ said the Head of CID, ‘Nathan having been in the slammer for three months.’

‘Looks like she’s asleep on the job, then.’ Skinner’s voice was flat and cold. His companion felt a chill grip his stomach. ‘There.’

Martin followed his pointing finger. In the dark shadows between two of the lines of raspberry canes, he could see something white. For once his contact lenses failed him, and he had to step closer, on to the lawn, before he could see that it was a left foot, encased in a lady’s white slip-on shoe. The right foot beside it was bare, and muddy.

‘Oh no,’ he whispered, as Skinner stepped alongside him.

‘No wonder she didn’t hear the bell, Andy.’

Together they approached, until they were looking down the alley between the rows of bushes.

The woman lay face-down in the earth. She was wearing black slacks, and a white sleeveless cotton top. It was difficult to be sure, but they guessed by her long legs that Hannah Bennett must have been tall, like her brother. Her hair was as vividly red as his, but it was red also with blood.

Martin stepped past the body, forcing the bushes aside as he did, and knelt down by her head. ‘She’s been stabbed,’ he said, in an even voice. ‘With great force; it looks like a broad-bladed kitchen knife. It’s buried in the side of her head, almost up to the hilt.’

In spite of himself, the DCC felt his stomach heave. He fought it as always, by concentrating on what had to be done, and took his hand-phone from the pocket of his shirt. ‘Better get Brian Mackie up here,’ he muttered.

‘Brian’s away for the weekend, with his girl-friend,’ his colleague told him. ‘Try calling Rose instead.’

Skinner nodded and punched in the home number of his former personal assistant; it was filed in his memory.

‘Hello.’ The call was answered after four rings, by a gruff male voice.

‘Morning, Mario, it’s the DCC here. It’s Maggie I need.’

‘Ah, morning, Boss. Just when we were looking forward to a lie-in. Hold on.’There was a pause as Inspector Mario McGuire passed the handset to his wife.

‘Yes, sir.’ It occurred to Skinner that he could remember only one occasion on which he had known DCI Margaret Rose to look or sound remotely flustered.

‘I’m sorry, Mags, but DCS Martin and I have come across a problem in your area. I need a team up here on the double, and everything needed to set up a murder inquiry. You call out your duty people, and I’ll alert an ME and the scene-of-crime team.The address is Number Seventeen, Garston Avenue, Bonnyrigg. There’s one victim, female, believed to be Miss Hannah Bennett.’

‘Bennett?’ Rose’s voice was suddenly sharp.

‘Yes. Nathan’s sister. Let’s not jump to conclusions, though. It may be completely unconnected with her brother, but then again. . Just get up here as fast as you can. There’s a street full of sleeping neighbours waiting to be knocked up and interviewed.’

He ended the call, then keyed in his own number. Sarah picked up the phone almost at once. ‘You still in bed?’ he asked.

‘No. I’m just out of the shower. I’m standing here stark naked, if you want to know.’

‘That’s very nice, but tell me; what time are you due at your autopsy?’

‘Eleven-thirty.’

‘That’s good. In that case, I want you to chuck on some clothes and get here on the double. I’ve got a job for you before you see Prof. Hutchison.’ He gave her the address, then called headquarters, and left orders to be passed on to Detective Inspector Arthur Dorward, head of the scene-of-crime team. By the time he replaced the phone in his pocket, Martin was standing beside him once more.

‘That’s Hannah Bennett all right,’ he said. ‘Facially, she looks very like her brother.’

‘What?’ growled Skinner. ‘Does he have a big fucking knife sticking out of his head too?’