Skinner's ghosts

28

'Watch this bend, Neil.'

Sergeant Mcllhenney believed that, if you were any good at the business of life, you would learn something new every day. For him, Tuesday's unexpected lesson was that Bob Skinner was a nervous passenger in a motor car.

Al the way along the coast road, the DCC had shifted uneasily in the passenger seat of the unmarked car which his personal assistant had drawn from the pool, the DCC having reasoned that his own car was too well known in Gul ane not to be noticed if it was parked outside a strange house. It was the first time that the Sergeant had ever driven his commander.

Now, as Mcllhenney took the Lufihess corner at scarcely more than fifty miles an hour, he pointed at the curve of the road, and barked his warning.

'No problem, boss. I've driven this road before you know.'

'Of course you have, Neil. Sorry. I just have this dislike of being driven, that's all. Especially there. It's where my first wife was killed.'

'Ah,' said Mcllhenney, understanding at once. 'You should have said. I just assumed that I'd be driving.'

'Quite right,' grunted Skinner. 'It's what personal assistants are for. Anyway, you have to confront your dislikes every so often, or they can become phobias.'

As the police car swung round the right-hand bend into Gullane, he began to give the Sergeant a series of directions. Finally, they turned a corner, into Carnoustie Terrace, Mcllhenney crawling along the kerbside until he spotted Number 12. 'There we are, boss,' he said cheerily. 'Ordeal over.'

The two policeman stepped from the car, into the warm sunshine of the summer day. There were no more than two dozen hoses in Carnoustie Terrace, linked, as its name suggested, in groups of six.

From the roughcast exterior Skinner's assistant guessed that they were Council-built, although he guessed by the variety of window and door styles that most were now in private ownership.

Number 12 did not have new UPVC windows. Its were wooden, modern enough, but matching only a few others in the street. He held the rusty metal gate open for Skinner and followed him into a 99 short driveway. The house was fronted by a dark green privet hedge, in need of a trim, and by weedy grass on either side of the path, in need of cutting. The blue-painted, half-glazed front door was scratched, and marked at the bottom, as if it was kicked regularly.

'No' exactly house-proud, sir,' muttered Mcl henney, as he pressed the white plastic bell-push.

They saw the figure approach through the obscured glass, seeming to shamble rather than walk. The door opened, slowly. Although the name had meant nothing to him when he had heard it first, Skinner recognised Rose Grayson at once. Part of the street furniture of the village; a presence on his occasional visits to the local pubs.

She was a big woman, aged anywhere between forty and fifty, five feet eight and fat, hipless, with a thick waist. Despite the fine weather, a nylon housecoat hung loosely round her shoulders, covering a dirty pink sweater and a crumpled grey dress. On her feet were carpet slippers, trimmed with grey-pink artificial fur. A cigarette hung loosely between the first two fingers of her right hand. At once Skinner formed a mental picture of her husband, Michael, skinny, badly suited, with a shock of greasy dark hair, and the permanent scowl of an evil disposition. The Graysons were a couple whom the rest of the village left to themselves.

Rose Grayson sighed, as if the unannounced appearance at her door of two strange men in suits was not an unusual occurrence.

'Aye?' she asked, wearily, with a permanently defeated tone to her voice.

'Police, Mrs Grayson,' Skinner announced. 'We'd like a word. Is your husband at work?'

'You must be fuckin'jokin', mister. He's out the back. Yis'd better come in.' She turned and led them into the house. The embossed wallpaper in the hal had been painted over, but a long time before.

Dirty curls made their way up from the skirting board. The living room looked like a war zone, littered with discarded newspapers, empty beer cans and ful ash trays. Automatical y the policemen breathed as gently as they could, trying to deflect the smell of the woman and of her shabby surroundings.

'Haud on a minute,' she said. 'Ah'll get Mick.' She stepped across to the window, white on the outside with what looked like a seagull's message, and rapped on the glass. Outside the policemen saw a man in a deck chair, as he started, as if from sleep. He was wearing the crumpled trousers of a dark suit, braces and a blue-striped shirt. He was barefoot. Rose Grayson waved her husband into the house, and turned towards her visitors. In the light from the window, they noticed for the first time a bruise beneath her left eye.

A few seconds later, Mick Grayson came into the living room, tripping over the frayed edge of the carpet and stumbling as he entered, 100 cursing softly. 'Who've you?' he began, then looked at Skinner for the first time. 'Here, don't ah ken you? What d'yis want?'

'You might know me by sight, Mr Grayson,' said the DCC, 'but that's all. My name is Skinner, and this is Sergeant Mcllhenney. We're police officers.'

The man's chest puffed out aggressively. 'Ah havenae done anything.' He turned suddenly on his wife. 'You havenae been nickin' fae the Co-op again, have ye, ya bitch?' he said, loudly. He made towards her, raising his right hand, as if to hit her. Before he had taken more than two steps Mcllhenney grabbed him by the wrist and swung him round.

Grayson made the merest of gestures towards him with his free hand, bunched into a fist, but stopped abruptly, as common sense, or self-preservation, took over. 'Wise man,' said the sergeant, giving the wrist a quick, painful squeeze before releasing it.

'Look,' said Skinner, 'for once we don't want to talk to you about anything you've done. We're looking for help with an investigation.'

Mick Grayson, subdued, looked at him. 'That's a'right then,' he said, managing, amazingly, to sound condescending. 'Whit is it?'

'We're told that you two were out on Saturday night, and that at around eleven you were having an argument just outside the vil age hal .'

Grayson looked blank. 'Were we?' he said.

His wife narrowed her eyes, her hand going to the bruise on her cheek. 'Aye,' she muttered, fiercely. 'We were.'

Her husband's eyes dropped. 'Oh aye, so we were.'

'What was the barney about?' Mcl henney asked.

Rose Grayson glowered. 'That yin bought himself a pint and…'

Her voice soared with indignation, '… a whisky wi' the last of our money, and never got anything for me. Honest taste God, he's a miserable wee toerag wi' a drink in him, so he is. Come taste think of it, he's a miserable wee toerag a' the time.'

'Aye,' said Skinner,' but he's your miserable wee toerag, isn't he?'

He went on quickly. 'Right, we've got you two at the foot of the hill between the Post Office and Bissett's, having a ding-dong. Now think careful y. On your way past, and while this was going on, did you see anyone in the phone box?'

Mick Grayson shook his head. 'Naw,' said his wife.

'Think carefully, I said. This is important.'

Husband and wife, reproved, knitted their brows. But eventual y, they shook their heads. 'Naw,' said Mick, 'Ah honestly cannae remember.'

The DCC sighed. 'Well did you see anyone at all in the area?'

There was a pause. Rose looked at her spouse, a new hesitant look in her eyes. 'Well,' she said finally, more to Mick than to the policemen, 'there was yon man.'

Grayson nodded, briefly, but it was enough. She looked back to Skinner and Mcl henney. 'We were havin' a bamey, like you said. I shoved Mick and he hut me. Just after that, this man appeared, door the hill, well-dressed like. Ah said taste him, "Did you see that, mister?"

He nodded his head and just went on. "Some fuckin' gent you," Ah shouted after him.

'He stopped at that, and he said taste Mick, "Don't hit the lady, then." He'd have walked on again, but Mick took a swing at him.'

'So what did he do, this man?' urged Skinner.

Grimly, unexpectedly, Rose Grayson smiled. 'He flattened the wee toerag, didn't he? Only hit him the wance, but he laid him as broad as he was long.' The smile broadened into a grin.

'Then what?'

'He turned away, got intae a motor in the vil age hal car park, and drove off, back up the hil. He just missed runnin' Mick over. More's the pity,' she added, sincerely.

Skinner looked at Mcl henney, and shook his head. 'Describe him,' he snapped.

She shrugged. 'Wee bit smal er than you, slim like, dark hair.'

Mick Grayson shook his head. 'Naw, he wisnae like that. He was tal er than yon man, and he had fair hair.'

'Come on,' Mcl henney barked, 'make up your minds. Fair hair?

Dark hair? Tal? Short? Which is it?'

'Ah'm right,' said Rose.

'Naw ye're no'!' her husband insisted.

'Jesus Christ!' shouted Skinner, exasperated. 'We're agreed, then, that he wasn't a bald-headed dwarf He looked at Rose. 'How about his car? What colour was it?'

'Light,' she answered. 'But it was shining orange under the street light, so a couldnae tell for sure.'

'What make?'

She shrugged. 'Ah dinnae ken things like that.'

The DCC sighed. 'Okay, one last thing. When the guy got to the top of the hil, did he turn right or left?' She looked at him, befuddled.

'Towards North Berwick, or towards Aberlady?' he asked, patient once again.

She paused, then nodded. 'North Berwick. He wis heading for North Berwick,' she announced, with a smile of satisfaction.

Skinner nodded. 'Good. Something at least. Right, that's as far as we can take it. Come on, Neil.' The policemen headed for the doorway, until Skinner turned. He pointed at Mick Grayson.

'You,' he said, evenly. 'If I ever hear that you've hit your wife again, I'l have you barred from every pub in East Lothian.' He 102 strode off, leading Mcl henney out, into the fresh air.

'What a pair of disasters,' the Sergeant exploded, outside.

'Say that again,' Skinner agreed. 'Still, we've got something at least. Assuming it was our man, he was heading out of Gul ane.

There's nowhere beyond the Post Office where he wouldn't stick out like a sore thumb.'