Skinner's festival

41

Stow – the place with the funny name – was a drab little village.

'It's pronounced as in "cow" not as in "blow",' Mackie, a Borderer himself, explained to Martin.

They reached Stow just on 4:00 pm, after a forty-five-minute drive down the A7, the road from Edinburgh to Galashiels and the Borders heartland of rugby football. The place clearly offered no attractions to delay the northward flood of tourist traffic on the scenic route into Scotland.

The business base of 'Frank Adams, Theatrical Props', as the Yellow Pages listing read, was difficult to locate, even in such a pocket-sized community. Eventually, with the help of the subpostmistress, they found their quarry in a cluster of buildings which, Mackie guessed, had once been part of a small farm.

Before leaving Edinburgh they had checked out 'Frank Adams, Theatrical Props' as far as they could, using the Department of Social Security and the Inland Revenue as their starting points.

The business had only two staff; Francis Snowdon Adams, listed by the tax office as self-employed, and Hugh Minto Dickson.

Both were in their forties, with Adams three years the elder at forty-seven.

From a friendly bank manager, contacted through the DSS, they had learned that Mr Adams made acceptable annual profits from business contacts all around the UK. These were steady throughout the year, and peaked during August, and also over the Christmas season when the British pantomime craze was at its height. The company operated on a cash-and-carry basis. Mr Adams owned the premises, and his overheads were restricted to the two salaries, rates, heat and light, motor expenses, hotel costs arising from his buying and selling trips around the UK, stationery, including a modest catalogue, stock purchases and insurance. To the bank manager's certain knowledge, the last category included a substantial indemnity premium to cover death or injury to any customers arising from defective stock.

'Wise man, Mr Adams,' Martin had commented.

Although Adams lived in Lauder, a few miles away from Stow, the bank manager knew him well not only as a customer, but also as a neighbour. He had described him as a forthright man, with abiding interests in rugby football, golf and cricket, but little else.

He was also an avowed Conservative, who regarded nationalism and its exponents as 'just plain stupid'.

Hugh Dickson was employed as stock controller, dispatch clerk and book-keeper. He was exceptionally well paid, possibly – the bank manager surmised – due to the fact that he was Mr Adams' brother-in-law.

Neither man was personally extravagant, although Mr Dickson, who was single and lived in Stow rent-free in a cottage alongside the company's storage barns, was known to have a close relationship with the village pub. However, he was known most of all for his reluctance ever to leave Stow.

It was said that his last journey of more than one-anda-half miles had been to Galashiels by bus, eighteen months before, to buy clothes and Christmas presents for his sister, her husband his employer, and two nephews. Mr Adams and Mr Dickson enjoyed a cordial, proper relationship, but, said the bank manager, they could not be described as bosom companions.

Martin related all this account to Mackie as the Detective Inspector drove them southwards down the A7.

'From the sound of it.' said Skinner's personal assistant, 'we'll get nothing from these guys.'

'On the face of it, that's right, but maybe there's someone else in the chain that we don't know about, someone who fits in between them and the Aussies.'

Both men were taking a coffee.break in the company's small office, when Martin and Mackie arrived unannounced. Neither Adams not Dickson seemed in any way surprised by their visit.

Frank Adams stood up to greet them, shaking each by the hand, and making steady eye contact. He was a big man – not exceptionally tall, but big – with a hand that swallowed even Brian Mackie's oversized paw. As Martin looked at him, remembering his own rugby days, he guessed that once he might have been a member of the closed brotherhood of front-row forwards.

'We've been expecting you guys, after that thing last night,' said Adams. 'We supplied that company – but you'll know that already, I suppose.'

Dickson remained seated. Even in his chair he seemed dwarfed by his brother-in-law, yet he had that air of aggressive selfassurance that small men often adopt to compensate for their lack of size.

'Never under-estimate a wee man,' Skinner had said of Adam Arrow. "That one there'll kill you just as dead as anyone.' The words returned unbidden to Martin, as he returned Dickson's confident gaze. He switched his attention back to Adams.

'What exactly have you heard or read?'

'Only that the explosion happened on the stage itself, in midperformance. Nobody would leave a bomb just lying about, so it must have been planked somewhere.'

'You guessed right. Tell me about the radiogram you hired out to the Australians.'

'That big bugger? Was that it? Christ, you could hide a depth charge in there. Look, it was nothing to do wi' us. I'U tell you that right now.'

Martin laughed lightly. 'Mr Adams, if 1 thought it was, we'd have come in here with guns and flak jackets. You'd have to be very stupid indeed to hide a bomb in your own gear and then sit here waiting for us to turn up. You're not that stupid, are you? Or you, Mr Dickson?'

Adams grinned; possibly in relief, Martin guessed. Dickson looked mortally offended.

'No, what we do need to know is whether anyone else had access to that radiogram while it was still here. When was it hired out last? Could it have been passed on directly from one renter to another?'

Adams rubbed his chin, thoughtfully. 'Hughie can check the stock sheet, but I'm certain it hadn't been out for two years. And we always have kit brought back here first, just so we can check it's OK. We make our customers pay for the insurance of all our stock, under our own policy. Delivery back here is one of the conditions. And we take a twenty per cent value deposit.'

'So who else had access to it here, other than you and Mr Dickson?'

'Nobody!'

Martin was surprised by his vehemence. 'You haven't seen any sign of a break-in?'

'No, nor heard any. All our storage buildings are alarmed like bank vaults. You try and get insurance without that, these days.'

'And you've had no visitors?'

'No, we haven't.'

'It's your busy season. You haven't taken on any casual labour?'

No.'

'Look, we're not the DSS. If you have, you can tell us. It goes no further.'

'No, I tell you!' Adams' tone was insistent.

'OK, OK.' He glanced at Mackie. 'That's as far as we can take it, Brian. Thanks, Mr Adams, Mr Dickson. We won't take up any more of your time now. I'll dictate a statement back at the office and have a uniformed officer drop it in for you to approve and sign.'

They had almost left of the building when they heard Hugh Dickson call out. 'Frankie!'

The detectives stopped and looked back. The little man had stood up. He was looking not at them but at Adams, a strange pleading expression on his face.

'Look, Frankie, this is nae use. Sister or no', I won't say a word taste Shona, I promise, but ye've got taste tell them about the lassie.'

If looks could kill, thought Martin, as Adams glared at his brother-in-law, we'd have a murder on our hands here. But then the big man's eyes dropped, and his shoulders sagged.

'Aye, Hughie. You're right enough. I've got to, haven't I. But mind, if you do say a bloody word to Shona…'

Martin broke in. 'Listen, Mr Adams. If you don't tell us whatever it is right now, I'll arrest you and do you for wasting our time. Then Shona'U find out for sure! Now, cough it up!'

Adams led them back into the office. This time he offered them seats. Mackie produced a notebook and pen.

'About three weeks ago,' Adams began, 'this girl showed up, looking for work. She was American. She said her name was Mary McCall. Said she was working her way round Britain, that she was skint, and needed a job. Most of all, she told me, she needed a roof over her head. I said I didn't need any help – that Hughie and I could manage fine. Hughie, by the way, he was down the village getting coffee and stuff when all this happened. Then she says if I give her a job and a place to kip, she'll make it worth my while. I ask her what the hell she

means, and you know what she does?'

Before Martin and Mackie could hazard a guess he went on.

'She comes straight over and unzips me. Then she gives me the most memorable…' Adams closed his eyes and shuddered.

'Christ, man, I thought she was gonnae…' He stopped, and glanced at Martin, in a strange, conspiratorial, man-to-man way.

'Anyway, that was how Mary persuaded me to give her a job. Not that she did much work… standing up, at any rate.

'There's a wee Hat above the garage across the yard. I let her stay there. I was giving her one every night. Once or twice I didn't go home, but Shona thought nothing of that.

Sometimes I kip over there, if Hughie and I have had a few bevvies after work. I didn't mean it to go on for more than a few days, but, man, she was something else. She fucked like a jackrabbit! Hughie here caught on quick enough… He wasn't best pleased at first, but he laughed about it eventually. He called it the old ram's last stand.' He glanced across at his brother-in-law with a sheepish grin. The smaller man looked at the floor.

'How did it end?' asked Martin. 'I take it that it did end.'

'Oh, yes,' said Adams, 'it ended. I came here last Saturday night, after golf. Shagged me stupid she did, just like always. I came back across on Sunday, about midday, and she was gone.

She didn't have much in the way of baggage, but what she had was away. She left not a trace behind her. No goodbye note, no "Thanks for a great time", no nothing.'

'Did she have access to your stores while she was here?'

'Sure. She helped Hughie check out some orders.'

'Including the Australian stuff?'

'Aye, I think so.'

'That's right,' Dickson confirmed.

When was that?'

'Last Thursday,' said Adams. 'They wanted it delivered by Friday for their rehearsals.'

'And she disappeared on Sunday morning?'

'Right.'

'Did she take anything?'

'Steal anything, you mean? No. Nothing. The petty cash tin was there, too, wi' two-hundred-odd quid in it, but it was untouched.'

'You didn't see her leave, Mr Dickson?' asked Martin.

The man shook his head. 'No. I had nothing taste do wi' her.

I'd rather have a good pint taste a blonde any day. Ah stayed out of her way as far as ah could.'

Martin looked back to Adams. 'How good a description can you give us?'

Try this. Five feet nine or ten. Shoulder-length hair, blonde but dyed. Tanned, all but her bum. Legs right up to her arse. Very narrow waist, explosive hips, firm bum, wide shoulders, goodsized firm tits with wee pink nipples. Two moles low on her back.

Appendix scar. Blue eyes, wide mouth, good teeth, long eyelashes.

Oh, yes, and very strong.'

'Eh?'

'Aye. She's got exceptional strength on her for a woman. She challenged me to arm-wrestle once. I had a hell of a job getting her arm over, and I'm no pussy.' He rolled up his shirt sleeve to display a massive forearm.

'Did she ever talk about herself?'

'Not much. She said she came from Iowa, that she'd run away from home when she was sixteen, seven years ago. Said she'd been abused by her stepfather, but that she didn't want to talk about it.'

'Did you ever see her passport?'

No.'

Right. We'll need to get a technical team down here, to go over the flat where she stayed. Will you show us now, please.'

Adams led them out of the office and across the yard, past Mackie's Mondeo and past a silver Audi which the detectives assumed belonged to Adams.

A flight of narrow steps led up to the little flat, which had only two rooms. One was the main living area and the other, which opened from it, contained a single bed and a small wardrobe. A shower room and toilet opened off the top of the stairs.

If this is our girl,' said Mackie, 'chances are she's wiped the place clean.'

Martin looked into the shower-room. The toilet seat was up. He turned to Adams. 'Do you always leave it like that?'

The man grinned. 'Aye. Bad habit of mine. The wife's always getting on to me.'

Not so bad this time. I'll bet you we get a print off that, if nowhere else.'