Thursday legends

39

'How certain are you that this Howard Shearer's our man, sir?' Skinner smiled inwardly as he looked at the bleary-eyed Pringle. Eight a.m. Friday mornings in the office were not of his choosing, not any more, not at his age, not now that he was a Right Worshipful Panjandrum or whatever the hell he was in his Lodge. He thought for a moment of pointing out that there could be no degrees of certainty, but he let it pass; Nobody loves a smart-arse, he reminded himself.

'I'm not saying he is, Dan; I'm still a way short of that. But everyone who knows him… and there were nine of us last night, ten counting Sarah… agrees that the e-fit is a damn good likeness. There's an appendectomy scar too, and on top of that he was missing from action last night. We've always joked that the Diddler would skip his own funeral to make the game.

'I've checked his house, without breaking in, and I know that no-one's been there since Sunday at the latest. Still it's not conclusive; there could be an explanation. He's a high-flyer in fund management; he makes occasional trips to the Far East. He could be there, or he could be at a conference.

'I hope to God he is, for his sake and for his wife's.'

Pringle grunted. 'There's something else, for her sake too, sir. The man in the water had someone else's pubic hair trapped under the bell-end of his knob.'

'I know… and I just hope we don't wind up having to ask Edith for a sample for comparison.' He paused. 'I've read Sarah's report till I know it off by heart. The part of it which deals with how he was tied up… What did you make of that?'

The Superintendent looked at the DCC suspiciously, as if he was afraid he had been asked a trick question. 'It said that there were marks on the wrists and ankles, showing that he had been securely tied up.' He paused. 'And it noted that the marks went all the way round, indicating that the wrists and ankles may not have been bound together, although not ruling out the possibility that there might have been a final layer of rope or cord over the top.

'In other words,' he concluded, 'Sarah couldn't say whether they were tied together or not.'

'Right. Ten out of ten; damn near word perfect. Now; leave the question of identification to one side for the moment, add your alien pube to the situation and try this. A sex game: our victim was into bondage. He liked it upside down, the woman in control, not him. So he lets himself be tied to the bed posts and be fucked… and then it all goes very sadly wrong.'

Dan Pringle's expressive face wrinkled; he scratched his heavy moustache. 'So are you saying he was killed by a woman?'

'I'm saying he could have been, not that he was. I don't know how the other half lives; maybe the victim was gay. Or maybe he was straight and it was a set-up; she jumped off and in came a squad of guys with big hammers.'

'Not hammers, not according to the report.'

'Okay then, baton-like instruments, if you want me to quote verbatim. Terminal, whatever they were.'

'What's the time?' Skinner asked suddenly, glancing at his watch to answer his own question. 'Eight twenty-five. Late enough to try the Diddler's office. They do business in Europe, so the switchboard's always open at eight. His secretary could be in by now… and so, of course, could he.'

'What's his firm called?'

'Daybelge Fund Managers.' He picked up Yellow Pages from Pringle's desk. 'I can never remember the damn number. Ah here it is.' He picked up the direct line telephone, punched in seven digits, and waited.

'Daybelge; how can I help you?' The telephonist's voice had the tone of a bell.

'Is Mr Shearer in?'

'No sir.'

'Janine Bryant?'

'Yes, sir. Who shall I say is calling?'

'Mr Skinner, a friend of Mr Shearer.'

He waited again, until a new voice came on line. 'Good morning, Mr Skinner.'

The DCC had spoken to Janine Bryant many times, and had met her once when he had given the Diddler a lift home from his office on a Thursday evening. She was a clever, confident, assured woman in her late thirties. He had never heard her sound remotely apprehensive before, and so when she spoke, it was as if a cold fist had punched him in the stomach.

'Where's the Diddler, Janine?' he asked, quietly.

'I don't know, Mr Skinner. I was afraid that you did and that you were going to tell me. He hasn't been in the office since last Friday; but he didn't warn me he was going away or anything. I've had to ask other partners to take over his meetings all this week.'

'Have you called Mrs Shearer in France?'

'I didn't like to do that.'

'Why not?'

He sensed her hesitation. 'I hardly like to say this, even to you, but I have a feeling that he might be with a girlfriend.' 'What makes you think that?'

'I can't put my finger on it; it's just that last week there was a spring in his step, one that I've seen in the past, one that's usually been associated with a discreet adventure. With Mrs Shearer and Victoria leaving for France last Friday morning… well, I have a suspicion.'

'Is that why you didn't raise the alarm?'

'No,' said the secretary, 'not at all. Mr Skinner,' she continued, 'Daybeige is a partnership, but Mr Shearer is very much the senior partner. He takes all the strategic investment decisions; the others implement them and report to him. We have some extremely important clients and if word got around the market that he was missing, I hate to think of the consequences for the firm.

'I discussed the situation with the others on Wednesday, and we agreed that we would do nothing and say nothing, but wait for him to surface.'

Skinner sighed. 'I fear that he may have surfaced already, Janine. Have you read about the unidentified man who was fished out of the Water of Leith last Saturday?'

She gasped, 'Yes,' she replied in a trembling whisper.

'There were terrible facial injuries, but in the circumstances… it could be the Diddler. Do you know who his doctor is?'

'He never goes to one, Mr Skinner. He's in perfect health. He has an annual check-up at the Murray field, just to be sure… his MOT, he calls it and he always passes with flying colours.'

'Would they have a note of his blood group?'

'They have better than that. They have some of his blood. Mr Shearer has a rare blood type, so he has the hospital take a pint every six months and store it, just in case they ever have to operate on him.'

Skinner nodded to Pringle, who was standing beside him, hanging on to one side of the conversation. 'That's good,' he told the secretary. 'We'll get an identification from that; one way or another.

'Now,' he continued, 'do you know where Graham, the son, is?'

'He's in Australia. He's spending the university vacation in Sydney working with a firm with whom Daybelge has a link. Mr Shearer arranged it for him.'

'Damn. I'd have liked him here for his mother, if it comes to that.'

'I have a number where you can reach him. Hold on.' He waited while she looked it out, then noted it down as she read.

'One last thing, Janine. If the Diddler was up to his old tricks and was shacked up somewhere, do you have any idea at all where that might have been.'

'No,' she replied. 'Unless… unless he used Graham's place. That would have been empty.'

'What's that?'

'It's a cottage. Mr Shearer bought it but the mortgage is in Graham's name. It's down in Coltbridge. I don't have the address, but I know that it…' She stopped in mid-sentence.

'You don't need to tell me,' Skinner said. 'It backs right on to the Water of Leith.' 'Yes.'

'Ahh, that's it,' the DCC hissed. 'Thanks, Janine. I'm really sorry. Look this has got to stay secret, even from the partners, until we've confirmed the identification by DNA comparison, and until Edith has been told. My colleague Dan Pringle will keep you informed of what's happening.

'So Daybelge can arrange damage control, we'll tell you before we make any announcement. That will not happen before Edith and Victoria are back in Scotland, or before Edith has spoken to Graham and he's on his way back home.'

'I understand.' She sounded under control.

'Good. You'd better give me your home phone number.' Again, he noted as she dictated.

'Thanks. So long, and again… I'm sorry.'

He hung up the phone, and turned to Pringle. 'Okay, Dan. I want you to get McGurk up to the Murrayfield to collect a sample of the Diddler's stored blood. Then I want you to find an address in Coltbridge occupied by one Graham Shearer.'

The Superintendent picked up a copy of the electoral register from his desk and flicked through it. 'There's no Shearer listed anywhere about there,' he announced, after a few minutes.

'The boy's only twenty, Dan. His vote's probably still in Gullane, but he'll be paying Council Tax in Edinburgh. Check it out with the City.' He turned towards the door.

'Damn!' he shouted suddenly. 'Damn! Damn! Damn! Who the Hell would want to do that to the Diddler? And why, for God's sake? Alec Smith and him, on the same bloody night!'

'But no connection between them, Boss.'

'No, but…' He gasped. 'Wait a minute, of course there's a bloody connection. They both belonged to the Legends. They played together.'

Pringle stared at him. 'My Thursday football group,' he explained, curtly. 'Alec was a member for a while, till his knee went; the Diddler's been a member almost from the start. And they're both murdered on the same night. One in North Berwick, one in Coltbridge. And what was the time gap between the two killings?' He thought for a moment. 'Four hours,' he snapped. 'It's possible; it could have been done.

'Dan. Get that blood; find that house. I'm off to talk to Sarah.'