Skinner's ghosts

54

Abercromby Place is little more than a connecting road, linking Dublin Street and Dundas Street. With few private residences, and much of its town-house office space vacant and available for let, its main value to the city is as a place for shoppers to park.

When Martin and Skinner swung out of Dundas Street, they found the road partially blocked by a police car slewed sideways. The two constables on duty recognised the detectives at once, and waved them through, although one sneaked a second, surprised glance at the suspended DCC.

They drove on but had gone barely any distance before, at a point where the road curved, they came upon two more police cars, an ambulance, and a knot of half a dozen uniformed officers, with men in plain clothes mingled among them.

As they jumped from the car, Mario McGuire saw them and waved them through the crowd.

'Are all these bystanders necessary?' Skinner barked.

'I'm waiting for someone senior from Division to take command, sir,' said McGuire.

'Will we do, d'you think?' said Martin, curtly. 'Senior officer forward,' he cal ed. A uniformed inspector stepped up. 'Get this lot organised and searching. I want spent cartridge cases, and anything else that's lying around.'

He turned back to McGuire. 'Any witnesses?'

'One. She's in the ambulance, being looked after. She was just coming out of her flat in Albany Street when she heard a bang. She didn't react at first, but final y she looked along here and saw something on the ground. She ran along, and realised what it was.

By that time the manager of the pub on the corner had appeared too.

He called us.'

'How did you get involved?' Skinner asked.

'By luck, Inspector Good was in the first car to respond. He looked in the woman's handbag, found this, and cal ed me straight away.'

McGuire handed Skinner a laminated photo-pass, showing a blonde woman in her thirties. It bore a House of Commons crest, and a name: Mrs Catherine Anderson.

'Oh shit,' whispered the DCC. 'It's Bruce's wife al right.

'Let's have a look at her, then,' he said, resignedly McGuire led them across the street, towards a car parked nose-in, in the only occupied bay in a group of six. The body lay on the ground beside the driver's door, covered in a grey blanket, emblazoned with the crest of the Scottish Ambulance Service.

Skinner knelt down and lifted it up by a corner, carefully. Two eyes stared out at him, vacantly, looking not in the slightest surprised, just very dead. There was a big ragged hole in the woman's forehead, just at the hairline, from which blood and grey brain matter stil oozed. He dropped the blanket quickly, fighting for control of his stomach.

'Shot in the back of the head?' he asked McGuire.

'Yes sir. You can see the exit wound. It looks like he just stepped up behind her and… Bang! Poor woman never knew what hit her.'

He paused. 'Eh, who's going to tell Mr Anderson?'

'I wil,' Skinner answered, 'suspended or not. But we'll need to find him first.' He reached into a pocket of his jacket, to produce a small book. 'I've got his private secretary's home number here.' He began to search again, for his mobile this time, but was interrupted.

'Excuse me, sirs,' said a nervous woman constable, appearing on the edge of the group, 'but there's someone here who says he might know the victim.'

The three detectives looked across, to see a middle-aged man, dressed in a grey shirt, grey trousers and with greying hair and beard, standing with another officer. Martin and Skinner walked across towards him.

'Yes, sir?' the Chief Superintendent began. 'First, can you tell us who you are?'

The man, who was also grey-faced, nodded quickly. 'I'm Charlie Kettles, I have the hair studio on the corner. Look, when I saw the car and heard what had happened… It's not Mrs Anderson, is it?'

'D'you know her?' Skinner asked.

Kettles nodded, anxiously. 'She's a customer. She has been ever since her husband became Secretary of State and they took over Bute House. She comes at nine thirty every Saturday morning, for a tidy up usual y. She left my place not long ago.'

'I see.' The DCC nodded. 'I'm afraid it is Mrs Anderson.'

'God, that's terrible,' said the hairdresser, his eyes glistening suddenly. 'What about Tanya?'

'What d'you mean?' Martin asked, yet knew the answer. A sinking feeling gathered in his stomach.

'Her daughter. Tanya. She's eight. Every second Saturday, she comes with her mother. She was here today. She's not… as well, is she?'

'No,' Skinner replied. 'There's no sign of Tanya. Thanks, Mr 183

Kettles. Someone wil take a statement from you in due course. If you'l excuse us, though, for now.'

'Of course.' The man nodded, turned and headed back to his studio, head bowed, as the DCC took out his mobile phone once more.

He punched in a number. After a few seconds, the Secretary of State's private secretary answered. '247-348…'

'David. It's Bob Skinner here. Where's your boss?'

'Bute House. Why?' Hewlett sounded alarmed.

'Never mind why. Just listen. How long wil he be there?'

'Quite a while. He's expecting the Permanent Under Secretary of State and me for a working lunch.'

'Okay. You contact the Permanent Secretary and cancel him. Then get along there yourself. Andy Martin and I will be there before you.

This is a real emergency, so no questions for now, Dave. Just do it.'