Skinner's mission

65

She sat up in bed, her legs pulled up under her chin. It had been a long time since her parting from Alan Royston, and since a man had spent a night under her roof.

The heating had been on all night and, despite the winter outside, the room was hot, so she had thrown back the heavy quilt. She was still thinking as she had been when she had fallen asleep, of his surprising vulnerability, and of his obvious helplessness in the face of his split from his wife. She knew the feeling herself, having been through divorce, and she knew that it was an area too personal and subjective for her to lend any more support than a sympathetic ear.

She jumped when the bedside telephone rang, and looked automatically at the alarm clock. It showed 7.19 a.m. Wondering who the early morning caller could be, she picked up the phone. ‘3179,’ she answered.

‘Pamela.’ A clear voice, familiar to her already, came down the line. ‘It’s DCS Martin here. I don’t suppose the Boss told you where he was going last night, did he? I need to contact him, but I can’t raise him at Gullane, and his mobile’s switched off. He’s not at his Edinburgh number either.’

She gulped, and hesitated for a second, before making up her mind. ‘Actually, he’s here, sir,’ she told the Head of CID. ‘He drove me home last night, then got snowed in. Hold on, I’ll call him.’ She jumped out of bed and slipped on her robe, then skipped across the living room.

‘Boss,’ she called out, loudly, rapping on the closed door of the spare room. ‘Telephone. It’s Mr Martin. You can take it in the kitchen if you like.’

‘Okay, Pam, thanks,’ came the voice from within. ‘I heard it ring. I’m just coming.’

A few seconds later the door opened and he stepped out, barefoot, with a black shadow around his jawline, and wearing the trousers of his suit. He smiled at her and headed for the kitchen. As he passed, she could see, showing red and vivid still, the scar of the surgery through which his life had been saved a few months earlier.

Skinner took the phone from its cradle on the wall. ‘What’s the matter, Andy? Did you lift Terry earlier than planned?’

‘We never got to Torphichen, Boss. We picked up a treble-9 call forty-five minutes ago from the cleaner in his office in Stafford Street. That’s where I’m calling from. I think you should get up here.

‘The Comedian won’t be turning the key on Jackie Charles for us, I’m afraid. At least not without the aid of a medium. His brains are all over the floor, and he isn’t getting the joke at all.’