Private Investigations

Thirty-Two

I have never been the best sleeper; all through my life there’s been plenty to keep me awake, whenever I close my eyes and try not to think of it. Scenes from my childhood, scenes from my early adult past, and scenes from more recent times; they’re all there waiting to be replayed. The most recent, and because of that the most vivid, is set in a mountainside lodge in the Pyrenees, but we won’t go there.

It’s worst when I’m on my own. Mostly my nights are uninterrupted when Sarah’s beside me. It marks her out as special to me; none of the others, not even Myra, and certainly not Aileen, ever came close to banishing my nocturnal horrors.

I tried that night, after I’d left my Seonaid to the peace that I hope will last her a lifetime, but as I’d known, it was a no-hoper. What kept me awake? What else but the newest clip in my library, the vision of sad-eyed little asthmatic Zena Gates, revealed, reproachful, after spending her last moments in terrifying darkness, struggling for one last breath that didn’t come.

I left her to it, because I didn’t have the courage to face her. Instead, at around four thirty, I rose, showered, had what would be, given the time, my first shave of the day and went downstairs. I made myself coffee, a good strong filter brew of which Sarah would have disapproved. It was a minor act of cheating on her, I suppose, and I did feel guilty, but I needed it.

In the office, I picked up the McGarry file again, and had another look at it. I was no more impressed than I’d been the first time. I’d covered up for the guy when I’d spoken to Eden, but I was still enough cop not to have criticised him to a civilian. I made a mental note to call stolenboats.org, on the crazy off chance that it might have some intelligence on the fate of the Princess, then put it aside, turned on the computer and read my online morning newspapers. The dead child case was covered wall-to-wall as I’d expected, with many more questions than answers, but nothing about Dean Francey and his girlfriend had been picked up at that stage. I guessed that even the virtual media must sleep sometimes.

Sounds from the kitchen at seven thirty told me that Trish had come in from her apartment to start getting the kids up and ready for school. She’s a godsend, that girl. She’s been with the family for years, since not long after she arrived from Barbados, and shows no sign of wanting to leave us. It occurred to me as I listened to her rattling dishes that if Sarah did turn out to be pregnant again it would be good news for her.

I went through to tell her that Sarah was in Edinburgh and that she was in full charge of the brood. Then I went upstairs and dug out my running gear. At least twice a week, all year round, I run in the morning. In the summer I can go where I want, but when the nights are long, and the sun comes up with the eight o’clock news, I have to keep to the village, where there’s enough light.

A complete lap of my route is just over four kilometres. I did that easily in under half an hour, concentrating on nothing but the music from my iPod. My choice varies; it’s dependent on how fast I want to run. I had stuff to get out of my system, so that morning I chose Status Quo.

When I was done, rather than tackle another lap, I went into the village gym and spent some time on the weights. I’ve never been one for bulking myself up, but I do have levels that I like to maintain, although it’s harder now that I’m past fifty. Fifteen minutes in the sauna and I jogged home for my second shower of the day, feeling more like a human being and much less alone.

I called Sarah from the bedroom. I was taking something of a chance; the two autopsies might have gone on into the early hours and she might have been trying to grab some sleep. But no, she wasn’t. In fact, she was in her office.

Pathology is a big subject in university terms; she works entirely on the forensic side, and with Joe Hutchinson’s retirement looming, she was about to become head of a five-person unit that is part academic, part NHS, providing services under contract to the Crown Office, not only in and around Edinburgh, but in Fife and across much of the Scottish Central belt .

She could have based herself pretty much anywhere, but she had chosen the Royal Infirmary, the department’s administration centre. That’s where she was when I reached her.

‘Have you been home?’ I asked. She still has her own house, a relic from when we were still apart. It had been useful until then, but it was something we had to address.

‘Not for long,’ she admitted. ‘I didn’t get cleared up in the mortuary until much before three, but I needed to be around early to take the first lab results.’

‘Everything as expected?’

‘Pretty much. There’s something in the tests that might help the guys, but then again, it might not.’

‘The guys?’

‘Sammy and Sauce. Mario’s decreed that the links between these murders and the child are so close that they’re a single inquiry.’

‘I’d have done the same,’ I admitted.

‘Yes,’ she laughed, ‘and when you were chief, if your head of CID had taken a different view you’d have overruled him.’

‘That’s how bad I was?’ I asked.

‘From everything I’ve heard . . . although I wasn’t around for much of that time. How were the kids? Good night?’

‘Better than I had. That package I got from Mario wasn’t exactly full of information. In fact it was bloody annoying; a real shoddy job done by a real shoddy operator. I know I wasn’t in Strathclyde long, but honest to God, love,’ I grumbled, ‘I should have had a better grip on it than that.’

‘So think of this as your second chance,’ she suggested. ‘Got to go now. Have a good day and I’ll see you later.’

‘With that testing kit?’

‘Yes, I promise. I’ll call by Boots on the way home.’

Downstairs there was peace and quiet in the kitchen, with all three youngsters having gone off to school in my absence. I made myself a slightly late breakfast, melon, muesli, rye toast and mineral water, then carried it to the office, on a tray, to enjoy it at my leisure.

I had finished, and was taking a second look at the online Saltire, paying particular attention to the coverage of Sammy Pye’s investigation . . . by that time the Flotterstone deaths were being reported but not labelled as homicide, or linked to the other . . . when my email alert pinged.

I checked my box and saw a message from Luisa McCracken. I opened it and read:

Mr Skinner,

Please find attached a list of all guests and other attendees at events and receptions on board MV Princess Alison over the period requested by Mr Higgins. Should you need any more information, please give me a call.

She was either a fast worker or the list wasn’t very comprehensive, I surmised. As soon as I opened it I saw that the former was the case. Her boss had been more socially active than he’d led me to believe, for it ran to several pages. I scanned through it, quickly but carefully, looking at every name that had been recorded.

Some of them were known to me, people about town, a few stars of sports and entertainment, other men and women who were there, as the list indicated, for no other reason than friendship with Eden Higgins, and one or two that he might have had reasons for being seen with himself, politicians for example, and a couple of mid-ranking members of the royal family.

The rest were all business contacts: clients of his companies, suppliers to those businesses, and executives and directors of the enterprises themselves. I studied them, looking for anything that might point me in a positive direction, but nothing jumped out at me.

‘Why didn’t you just sell the Princess Alison, Eden,’ I found myself wondering aloud, ‘and buy the Royal Yacht Britannia? That would do the hospitality job and you’d never have to leave Edinburgh.’

I sat down and went to work. I made a copy of the document, then used it to strip out all of those labelled ‘Casuals’, the footballers, the friends and the freeloaders. When I was finished, everyone who was left had a business reason for being on the Princess. That was where I would begin . . . or rather, where somebody else would.