Private Investigations

Forty-One

‘Do you want to come back to Pitt Street for a chat and a bite of lunch?’ Lottie Mann asked.

‘To the first, definitely not,’ I said. I’d seen enough of the former Strathclyde Police headquarters building to last me a couple of lifetimes. ‘Lunch is on the agenda, though.’

We settled on the public cafeteria in the massive new general hospital for our post-mortem of the post-mortem, and found a table there. I’d skimped on breakfast with the morning’s business in mind, and found my appetite catching up with me. I loaded a plate with corned beef hash from the self-service buffet, trying to contain my amazement as my companion put together the biggest fry-up I’d ever seen.

She caught my glance and read it right. ‘I know,’ she admitted, ‘it’s a classic, lethal Weegie all-day breakfast, and I do my best to resist. Usually I succeed, but after this morning, what the hell.’

‘How’s your wee lad?’ I asked her, as we tucked in.

Lottie Mann is a single parent with a son around the same age as my James Andrew. Her marriage collapsed when her ex-cop husband went to jail, along with his still-serving woman on the side, for their peripheral involvement in a high-profile crime.

‘Jake’s great, thanks,’ she replied. ‘We’ve moved house. I bought a three-bed mid-terrace in what was the Commonwealth Games Village. It’s not huge but it’s big enough for the two of us, and for my mother when she stays over.’

‘But not for Scott, when he gets out?’ I ventured.

‘Not a chance,’ she replied. ‘The only way I want to see that man again is standing over his open coffin with a wooden stake in one hand and a hammer in the other. There are times when I have an insight into the mentality of a murderer. Thinking of him brings it on. It’s not so much what he did to me; it’s how it affected Jakey.’

‘I’ve been through two divorces,’ I told her. ‘The first one was a huge mistake, which I’ve been lucky enough to have the chance to rectify. The other was very bitter and very public, as you and the whole world know; but I’m over it.’ I smiled. ‘I even watched a Joey Morrocco movie the other night.’

Joey was the actor with whom the third Mrs Skinner was caught on camera; a household name but not in mine.

‘Is he still in Hollywood?’ Lottie asked.

I winked at her. ‘If he knows what’s good for him.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you sure you didn’t meet Jock Hodgson before yesterday?’

My laugh was loud enough to draw a sharp look from the next table, reminding me that we were surrounded by people who were under the stress of visiting friends and family in hospital.

‘Detective Inspector,’ I replied, more quietly, ‘I built a career on getting information out of people, without ever laying as much as a finger on them. If I’d wanted Hodgson to tell me something, I’d just have asked him and he’d have told me.’

‘Is that what you think? That he was tortured for information, rather than being killed brutally by a sadist?’

‘He wasn’t killed brutally,’ I pointed out. ‘Remember what Dr Bell found; he died from a single shot to the head. Death would have been instantaneous, and he’d have been out of his misery in that split second. Of course the killer was after something, and it’s a safe assumption that it was information: but information on what? You and Dan, and your team, have to do a complete background check on Hodgson before you can hazard a guess.’

‘We will do,’ she promised. ‘But how does that justify your interest, and your presence here? You must suspect that his death’s linked to the job you’re doing.’

‘I don’t suspect anything,’ I countered. ‘I’m an interested party, that’s all. One step at a time, Lottie: we know that the man was murdered, but really, we know eff all else about him, other than what I was told by one of his several employers. You fill in the gaps, and we’ll take it from there.’

I left her to add sticky toffee pudding to her cardiac cocktail, and drove back east. I was passing the Harthill motorway service area, driving cautiously through a light snow shower that had sprung up from nowhere, when I decided to call Carrie McDaniels for a progress report.

‘Nothing yet,’ she said. ‘Your meter is still running. I can see why you gave me this job rather than doing it yourself. It’s bloody tedious.’

‘I know that,’ I chuckled, ‘but have you got anything positive from it?’

‘Not so far,’ she admitted. ‘Actually you saved me a phone call,’ she continued. ‘I’d like you to loosen the strings you put on me yesterday.’

‘In what way?’ I asked.

‘There’s a hint of something I’ve picked up in a newspaper report on one of the companies on your list. I’d like to look into it in more detail, but to do that I’ll need to speak to someone. It’s a guy I know, but the problem is he’s a business journalist, and you said no press.’

‘How well do you know him?’

‘Very well; we were at school together. I used to give him information when I was with the insurance company.’

‘Can you talk to him without bringing me or our client into it, and without giving him any clue of what this is about?’

‘Mr Skinner, you’re forgetting; I don’t know what this is about. I’m just running down a list of people and companies you gave me.’

‘Maybe so, but can you talk to him without making him too curious?’

‘Yes, I can. If he did get difficult,’ she added, ‘I know who his newest lady friend is, and he knows I know.’

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘She’s a television presenter, and she’s married.’

‘Tread carefully,’ I warned her, ‘but go ahead.’

The snow disappeared as quickly as it had arrived, and I was able to pick up pace. Since I ceased to be a cop I’ve always been careful to stick to the speed limits, or at least to stay within the unofficial tolerance zone. Too many tabloids would love to report on a Bob Skinner court appearance. Even at that gentle pace, I had time on my hands so I made a detour to the Mercedes dealership on the edge of Edinburgh to pick up a detailed estimate for the repair of my damaged car.

I was almost home when my phone sounded again. I hadn’t expected to hear from Lottie Mann for at least twenty-four hours, and so I was taken by surprise.

‘What’s up?’ I asked. ‘Was there something we forgot to cover over lunch?’

‘No,’ she said breezily. ‘I thought I’d give you a heads up on what we’ve got so far. We’ve still got a way to go before we have the complete picture, but we know some of it. Hodgson was fifty-four; he graduated in marine engineering from Heriot Watt Uni in Edinburgh and joined the Navy aged twenty-four. He served in the surface fleet, including some time in aircraft carriers during the first Gulf War. He retired, or he was retired, ten years ago and joined the Royal Fleet Auxiliary: that’s a civilian support . . .’

‘I know what it is; it gets people and things to wherever they’re needed by the military.’

‘That’s right. He turned that in when he was fifty, and moved to Wemyss Bay from the Portsmouth area. He was married from nineteen eighty-nine to twenty zero two. That ended in divorce; no children.’

‘Where did you get all this?’ I asked.

‘Department of Work and Pensions . . . if that’s what it’s still called,’ she chuckled. ‘He’s been paying self-employed National Insurance contributions for the last four years. We don’t yet know who his clients are apart from Mr Higgins, but when we can access his bank details and see where his payments have been coming from, that’ll give us a better idea.’

‘Where did he bank?’

‘We found an ATM card for a Santander account among his effects in the house. He had one of their credit cards as well, and a Barclaycard. Dan’s on to the bank now; as usual, they’re being difficult.’

‘Let DCC McGuire know if it becomes a problem,’ I suggested. ‘He has a special way with difficult jobsworths, plus he knows the Data Protection Act inside out.’

‘Will do, Mr Skinner, thanks,’ Lottie said.

‘Were there no papers in the house to help you?’ I asked.

‘Precious little. He had a file with council tax details in it, and another for insurance, but no receipts for utilities, gas, electric, the phone.’

‘Me neither,’ I confessed. ‘Everything in my household is online, and settled automatically by direct debit. But if that was the case with Hodgson,’ I pondered aloud, ‘it should be on his computer.’

‘And it probably is,’ she agreed, ‘but we don’t know where that is. A week or so before his death, he reported a break-in at his house. The missing property listed in the investigating officers’ notes was a hundred and fifty quid in cash, an inscribed Omega watch that was a leaving present from his Navy pals, some gold men’s jewellery, a valuable ring that he said was his mother’s, and a Dell laptop computer.’

‘Did the responding officers have the place dusted?’

‘Of course they did,’ she said, reprovingly. ‘And it was clean as a whistle. The ring was insured for five grand and Hodgson had a photograph of it. It’s a nice-looking piece. That was circulated to all the likely jewellery buyers, including pawnshops, but nothing’s shown up.’

I could see her frown, and her pursed lips, in my mind’s eye. ‘Go on, Lottie,’ I challenged, ‘tell me what you’ve got in mind. See if you’re wondering the same as me.’

‘If you insist,’ she responded, ‘although I’ll only have your word for what you’re thinking. I’m wondering whether all the other items were stolen to disguise the fact that the laptop was the real target.’

‘Then take my word for it,’ I told her. ‘But I’m not even wondering. I’d bet your house on it. A laptop’s worth bugger all in sell-on value. The dogs in the bloody street have got laptops these days. You may assume that Hodgson’s burglar was after the Dell, and I reckon that you can assume also that either it was password protected and he couldn’t crack it or there was nothing on it apart from email files of his phone bills. And so he came back,’ I concluded. ‘And here’s where I leave you behind, DI Mann,’ I went on, ‘for I might even hazard a guess at who he was.’

‘Are you going to share that?’ she asked.

‘Not yet. Do something else for me first. If the CSIs did their job, they went over the garage and they found a Samsung Galaxy phone lying in his car. If they didn’t, it’s still there. Either way,’ I said, ‘you should get hold of it and see what’s on it. If I’m right, then I’ll share, and as far as Chief Constable Martin’s concerned it was your idea all along.’